


Well They Said You Was High Class

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Jensen doesn't know much, but he does know this: there is no way on God's green earth he is ever going to sleep with Jared.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Well They Said You Was High Class  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Jared/Jensen  
Summary: Jensen doesn't know much, but he does know this: there is no way on God's green earth he is _ever_ going to sleep with Jared.  
Notes: Will be posted over the next 2 or 3 days (there are three parts). If I need to explain where the title comes from, I'm sorry, I can no longer speak to you.   
  
  
  
**Part One**  
  
||  
  
So, the thing about Jensen is that Jensen is fucking _classy._  
  
And okay, his taste in, um, everything, sort of sucks. But damn it, he's never gotten drunk and puked on some starlet's shoes, so he's at least a few steps above, like, every other male star in Hollywood.  
  
Or LA. Whatever.  
  
He doesn't just have sex with random people, either. Nope—Jensen's a one-person kind of guy. He never once cheated on Joanna, and that's not just because she was a fucking Playboy bunny, either. Even after she broke it off with him, he didn't sleep around. Actually, now that he thinks about it, Jensen's really never had a one-night stand. He's just not that kind of guy.  
  
That's why he kind of hated Jared on first site.   
  
Because Jared's a complete and total slut. Not in a nasty, skanky Paris Hilton kind of way; Paris is the biggest bitch Jensen's ever had to suck up to, and Jared is the nicest, cuddliest, most innocuous person in Hollywood. But he's also ridiculously hot, so everyone wants to sleep with him. And because Jared's so nice, so fucking _open_ , he's more than willing to fulfill everyone's wishes.  
  
Chad Michael Murray. Michael Rosenbaum. Tom Welling. Kristen Kreuk and Allison Mack—together. Kristen Bell. Jason Dohring. Justin Hartley. Alexis Bledel. Lauren Graham. Random extras, guest stars, maybe even some of the CW writers. If they've been on the CW, they've been in Jared's pants.  
  
It's enough to make Jensen's head spin, and enough to ensure that Jensen is never, ever going to sleep with Jared.  
  
Because Jensen likes relationships. Jensen likes commitment. Jensen likes knowing that when he wakes up after a long night of fucking, there'll be someone next to him that he can bitch at. The last thing Jensen wants is to be a notch on Jared's stupid fucking Texas belt buckle.  
  
True, after awhile he did come to like the guy. Jared's a slut, but he's also happy and funny and big-hearted, and he makes Jensen laugh harder'n anyone has since he moved to this Godforsaken state. But even when he pulled Jared into a hug on the red carpet, he was absolutely certain that he and Jared would never be anything but friends.  
  
He's lasted an entire season of being pressed up against, tied up by, interviewed about, and forced to share nights with the guy. Despite the fact that Jared makes him hard at really stupid times, he's never made a move. Jared's jumped on him, humped him in public, and declared his love for him to an entire roomful of WB executives, and Jensen has just laughed it off.  
  
They're filming Season 2 now. Neither of them knows where the show is going or if this'll be their last season. Everything's rocky and uncertain, but there's one thing Jensen is absolutely, positively, unequivocally sure of: he is not going to sleep with Jared Padalecki.  
  
So of course, it makes perfect sense that he wakes up Christmas morning slumped over Jared's lap, wearing only a Santa hat and clutching a pair of handcuffs.  
  
Yeah. Jensen is one _classy_ guy.  
  
||  
  
_One Month Earlier_  
  
||  
  
Jared's getting his wardrobe fitted, and he's whined and bitched and moaned until Jensen's agreed to hang out in his trailer during the whole torturous process. It takes three hours for the wardrobe people to decide on two new outfits, and by the time the whole thing's done with, Jensen's ready to kill everyone in the room—Jared included.  
  
Then Jared walks out of the bathroom stark naked, and Jensen's entire brain shorts out.  
  
“Um,” he says, staring. Fuck, but Jared's got a nice chest. And nice arms. And nice legs. And a _fucking_ nice—  
  
“Sorry,” Jared says cheerfully. “They took my clothes, I'm not sure where they left 'em.”  
  
And with that, he starts rooting around the room, poking his head behind the TV and— _fuck_ —bending over to root through a pile of junk on the ground.  
  
_Ass. Jared's ass. The ass that's been all over the fucking place but looks so perfect and tight. He'd probably fit like a glove,_ the porn-watching devil on his shoulder says.  
  
He shakes his head emphatically. No. No, no, no.  
  
“Jen?” Jared's standing up now, holding a pair of jeans like a trophy. “You alright?”  
  
“Gyah,” Jensen says, before realizing—an embarrassing number of seconds late—that “gyah” doesn't really count as a word. “Um,” he says. “Yeah. Where's your shirt?”  
  
Jared shrugs; his entire upper body seems to _ripple._ “I dunno,” he says cheerfully. “I'll steal one from the costume trailer.”  
  
“That's all the way across set,” Jensen hears himself say.  
  
Jared grins. “You'll keep me warm,” he says, and then—right fucking _in front_ of Jensen, is the guy trying to kill him or something?—slips into the pants. They're old and worn and fit too tightly, making Jared look like he's just stepped out of a porno.  
  
“Arksidf,” Jensen says.  
  
Jared's smile is so bright that Jensen figures the lightbulb two inches from Jared's head will probably start hatching assassination plots soon. “Great!” he says, yanking Jensen up and against his bare chest, because _of course_ Jensen's not quite suicidal enough yet. “Let's go!”  
  
So that's how a humiliated Jensen finds himself getting yanked across set by Jared, whose tanned shoulders are red and...this is stupid, but _ruddy_ , and who's babbling a mile a minute about bowling shoes and the difference between Papa John's and Domino's.  
  
“And I don't know why, man, but Domino's is always full of stoners, and Papa John's toppings fall off but the sauce is way better than Domino's so that's okay, really, and hey, here's the costume trailer!”  
  
The costume trailer isn't glowing and it doesn't have a halo hovering over it, and Jensen knows this because he knows that costume trailers don't glow, and that halos only happen when the Baby Jesus is involved. But when Jared disappears inside the wonderful, glorious building with all the _clothes_ , it looks a hell of a lot like salvation to Jensen.   
  
Then, of course, Jared yanks on his hand. “C'mon, man,” he says, staring at Jensen expectantly.  
  
Jensen blinks. “You want me to—“  
  
“No, Jen, I want ya to stay out here in the cold.” Jared rolls his eyes, but the pissy expression is softened by his amused smile. “Get on in here. Your dick'll freeze off if you stay out there.”  
  
“Yeah, I'm sure you care plenty about my dick.” Jensen barely stops himself from shuddering when Jared pulls him up and flings an arm around his shoulders.  
  
“Of course I do.” Jared's arm flexes around Jensen. “You're a serious bitch when you're not gettin' laid, Jenny.”  
  
Jensen shoves him away, into a rack of Dean's clothes. “Fucker,” he says, but Jared's laughing.  
  
“Love you too,” he says, and pulls one of Dean's jackets on.  
  
And.  
  
It's just a jacket—a prop, no less, and Jensen's never been one for mixing work and play. He sees the jacket, he thinks Dean; long hours of work with not enough breaks for pissing, much less things like food and sleep. But it's Jared and he's in _leather,_ so when he practically pounces on Jensen and pulls him into an enormous hug, it's all Jensen can do not to fall over from the sheer force of the pornographic images in his brain.  
  
_Shit._ “Get a goddamned shirt on,” he orders, shoving Jared away.   
  
Jared laughs, and Jensen's almost surprised that the trailer isn't brought down from the sheer joyful force of it. “Why, Jen? You worried 'bout my virtue?”  
  
Jensen should punch him, because fucking _nobody_ is allowed to make fun of his name—but the first time Jared called Jensen “Jen” was more than a year ago, and Jensen's kind of given up on trying to force Jared to do anything he's dead set against—including, apparently, not gayifying Jensen's name.  
  
Of course, given that his dick is making his life incredibly miserable right now, maybe Jared's just a really accurate judge of character.  
  
...and Jared's looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Right.” He forces a laugh. “Nah, man, but what about the extras? You might kill 'em, and then Eric'd kill _us._ ”  
  
Jared looks like he's actually seriously considering it. It shouldn't be cute, but...Jensen gives himself a minute shake. _Jesus, Ackles, get ahold of yourself._ “You're right,” Jared declares. He pulls off the jacket, leaving it draped over the clothes rod—and yanks on one of Sam's hoodies.  
  
“Mmm, comfy.”  
  
And Jared stretches, leaning his head back and cracking his jaw, and Jensen doesn't want to because what's the point, really? Jared's very much not his type, and he's not Jared's type—or at any rate, he really fucking does _not_ want to be. Whatever. The point is that hey, that's Jared's _stomach_ , and his boxers, and Jensen just plain cannot deal.  
  
Especially when Jared drops his arms and yanks Jensen in for a hug. “I like sweatshirts,” Jared says happily, like he's completely oblivious of Jensen's muffled grunt. “They're soft.”  
  
“Soft.” Jensen pulls back, trying and miserably failing not to notice how stupidly tall Jared is. “Are you on drugs?”  
  
Jared just smirks—and it's almost a Jensen-smirk, which in and of itself shows just how extreme the show's been for their social lives. But there's also Jared's stupid goofy dorky self in the smirk, and Jensen can't stop himself from giving a Jared-smile back. “Maybe,” Jared says.  
  
It's not flirtatious. It can't be flirtatious, because Jared's an enormous slut but he's never wanted anything from Jensen, aside from maybe Jensen's approval, and he got that pretty quick. Nah—Jensen's just reading into shit. Not the first time.  
  
It kind of sucks that Jared flings an arm around Jensen and hauls him off to the local bar, being all hilarious and nice and just generally the kind of guy that girls dream about. Because Jensen's starting to think, more and more, that he really wouldn't mind if Jared was flirting with him.  
  
And it's pathetic, and stupid, but Jared's kicking his ass at pool and buying him beers and not-flirting with him—so Jensen makes cracks about the patrons of the bar, dares Jared to drink a fishy-smelling can of beer they find on the pool table, and not-flirts back.  
  
||  
  
“So, I think I oughta have a throwdown.”  
  
Jensen cocks an eyebrow. “A throwdown.”  
  
“Yeah.” Jared tilts his chair back, putting his hands behind his head. The t-shirt he's got on slips up; Jensen looks away, gritting his teeth. “You, me, fifty of Mike's closest friends, some beer and barbecue. You know, fun.”  
  
“You've been watching _Dukes of Hazzard_ reruns again, haven't you,” Jensen says. It's not a question.  
  
Jared looks shifty. “...maybe.”  
  
Jensen snorts. “How 'bout we—uh. you—throw a Christmas party instead? Cowboy hats and hay bales optional.”  
  
“Ha, ha,” Jared says, but he's grinning. “So, booze and mistletoe?”  
  
It sounds like a recipe for disaster; Jensen finds himself nodding assent.  
  
“Awesome,” and suddenly Jensen's being mauled by six and a half (or, almost) feet of Texan. “Thank you!” Jared says against Jensen's hair.  
  
“Um,” Jensen replies, because he doesn't think Jared'd take kindly to being raped in the middle of Pizza Hut. “You're welcome.” He doesn't think he's imagining the funny looks he's getting from the other patrons of the restaurant.  
  
Jared settles back in his chair. “This calls for a celebration,” he says triumphantly. “Waitress! Hey, WAITRESS!”  
  
The aggrieved-looking woman walks over to the table. “Can I help you?” she asks in the tone that says, “please go die now.”  
  
Jared flutters his eyelashes at her. “Can we have some beer, please? Or, actually, a lot of beer?”  
  
“Driving,” Jensen reminds him.  
  
Jared waves a dismissive hand. “Taxi.”  
  
Jensen doesn't want to get anywhere near drunk, not right now with Jared right _there,_ but Jared's grinning at him broadly, and he thinks distantly, helplessly, that there's nothing that can be done. “Okay, then,” he hears himself say.  
  
“Excellent!” Jared says. The waitress purses her lips and leaves, not saying anything.  
  
“I think we're kind of bugging her,” Jensen says, poking his pizza with a fork.  
  
“Dude, you don't eat pizza with _silverware,_ ” Jared says.  
  
“You mauled me,” Jensen continues, ignoring Jared's comment, “in this perfectly respectable restaurant.”  
  
“Oh, whatever. This is Vancouver. _Tom_ lives here,” Jared says.  
  
It's a good point, actually. “Still,” Jensen says. “One of these days we're gonna get our beer dumped over our heads.”  
  
Jared is clearly an enormous freak, because he licks his lips lasciviously. “Sounds good to me.”  
  
And now Jensen's even more uncomfortable. Of-fucking-course. He looks away, clenching his fist under the table. “You need help.”  
  
“I need _alcohol,_ ” Jared corrects him. “Where the hell's my beer?”  
  
“It's right here.” Two huge mugs slammed down on their table. “You boys'd better tip good,” the waitress adds ominously, and stalks off.  
  
“Hunh.” Jared watches her go, blinking. “I don't think she likes us much. Maybe I won't invite her.”  
  
Actually, maybe getting drunk is a good idea, considering that Jared's blinking innocently at him and the comment, the blinking, Jared himself, are so fucking real and there that Jensen suddenly needs to be horribly, embarrassingly, _blindingly_ wasted.  
  
Jesus fucking _Christ._ Jensen all but pours the beer down his throat.  
  
“That's the spirit!” Jared says, tilting his mug back. Jensen slams his down on the table, unable to stop himself from watching as Jared's throat works. When he's done, Jared wipes his mouth on the tablecloth. His eyes are fixed on Jensen, and if Jensen was a girl or Nicholas Sparks, he'd say they were glowing. “You're kind of awesome, Jensen,” Jared adds.  
  
“Yeah. Awesome, that's me.”  
  
Jensen doesn't feel anything but dull when he finishes off the beer and signals for another.  
  
||  
  
Two hours and ten beers later, everything is very clear to Jensen.  
  
“The whole world sucks!” he announces to Pizza Hut.  
  
Everyone in there—including and not limited to the customers, waitresses, and bugs in the corners—glares at him. Jensen doesn't care. His announcement is for their own good.  
  
“You suck,” he informs Jared morosely. “And so does this restaurant. And Vancouver. And Canada, actually. And the _world._ ”  
  
Jared's got his head buried in his hands. Ah. He's finally seen the truth of Jensen's words. “See?” he says, waving at the lump of hair that is Jared. “He agrees with me.”  
  
“Why, why, _why_ can I never remember that you are the _worst drunk ever,_ ” Lump of Hair says.  
  
“The _world_ is the worst ever,” Jensen reminds Jared. His friend Jared, who he'd kinda like to fuck, except that Jared doesn't like him. Or he does, but not in the right way. Because Jared, being in the world, is the worst ever.  
  
Jensen nods to himself. It all makes _sense_ now.  
  
“I am never going to let you forget this,” Jared says. He's more than a little drunk, his pronunciation too careful for sorbe...soberness, but he's not as drunk as Jensen. No one's as drunk as Jensen. Or as filled with doom.  
  
He tells Jared his theory while Jared's getting them a taxi.  
  
“Eternity,” is Jared's reply. “I will tease you about this into _eternity._ ”  
  
“S'ok, we're all gonna die anyway.” Jensen leans against the taxi's window. Nice glass, smooth and cool. They're probably gonna get into a wreck, since the glass is way too nice for a world that sucks as hard as this one. He distantly hears Jared giving the driver directions, and then he's leaning back, his legs all folded up and his shoulders hunched.  
  
“Heh,” Jensen says, kicking Jared in the shin. “You're too tall. 'cause God hates you.”  
  
“No, _I_ hate _you,_ ” Jared corrects.  
  
“Whatever. Hey, your arm is nice.” Jensen pokes it once, twice. “Bet you'll get cancer.”  
  
Jared's only answer is a pissy sigh. Jensen takes that as permission, so he scoots closer. He's actually kinda tired, what with the taxi going fast and the world spinning the way it is and everything. In fact, he's tired enough that he puts his head down on Jared's shoulders (too wide. He's _doomed._ ) and kind of keeps holding onto Jared's arm, and then the world gets fuzzy, until his hearing's drowned out and the lights are all fuzzy, too...  
  
And somewhere in there, the taxi stops and Jensen feels himself being hauled out, and he's almost tired enough to not think that he'll probably bust his head open on the pavement, almost tired enough not to notice that Jared drags him into the elevator and up to Jared's apartment. He's almost asleep when Jared dumps him on the couch, shoving a pillow under his head and covering him with a blanket.  
  
He hallucinates the hug, though, and the quiet “Sleep tight, Jen.” Because Jared is a giant whore, and he doesn't _do_ stuff like quiet domestic hugging, and Jensen is fucking ugly anyway.  
  
Oh, well, he thinks as he drifts off. He's probably going to die in his sleep, so none of it really matters.  
  
||  
  
Bacon is all kinds of awesome, except when you're so hungover that you'd bang Lindsay Lohan for an Advil. Then it just sort of sucks.  
  
Except that Jensen's not using that word, because last night Jared got him drunk and _oh God._  
  
“I am a moron,” he informs the couch pillow.  
  
“Don't worry, everything in this house knows it.” Jared, ridiculously cheerful. Jensen briefly considers killing him. For the good of humanity, of course. “Bacon?”  
  
“Urk.”  
  
“Hangover cure?”  
  
Jensen grabs the offered pills and glass of water. “You,” he says fervently, “are the best friend on the face of the earth. Even though if you keep smiling like that, I might have to kill you.”  
  
“Aww, thank you.” Jared bats his eyelashes and blows Jensen a kiss; Jensen's just barely got it together enough to flip him off when he downs the pills.  
  
“So, I was thinkin' we should go shopping,” Jared says.  
  
Jensen stretches, scratching his belly idly. “For what?” he asks, turning to meet Jared's eyes.  
  
“Um.” Jared blinks and shakes his head, looking away. “Sorry. Christmas stuff, like Santa hats and tinsel and—okay,” he says when Jensen cocks an eyebrow, “mostly I just wanna go somewhere, because it's a Sunday and I'm _bored._ ”  
  
“Right,” Jensen says, watching with interest as Jared slowly turns red. It's kind of like seeing a polar bear sprout wings and start singing a Spice Girls song in that it just plain never happens in nature. “So what's the real reason, Jay?”  
  
“Nothing!”  
  
The only person in the world who's better than Jensen at looking bitchy and threatening is Chad, and that's only when he's high or around Hilary Duff, who could turn a friggin' kindergardener into a raging bitch. Jared gives in immediately.  
  
“Okay. I was maybe kind of going to takeyoutothebuildabearworkshopbecausethat'syourChristmaspresent.” Jared lets his head fall to the table with a _thump._ “Sorry.”  
  
Jensen blinks, and then blinks again, because—Build-a-Bear? Fucking _Build-a-Bear_? “You've finally lost it, haven't you,” he says levelly.  
  
“It was supposed to be funny! A gag gift.” Jared lifts his head, and aw, hell. Jared's doing the thing with his eyes, the sad “hi, I'm pathetic and sad, don't you want to make me feel better?” _thing_ that never fails to turn Jensen into a pathetic lump with the same emotional IQ as a little girl faced with a starving puppy. “Can we still go get it?”  
  
Jensen's doomed and he knows it. “Fine,” he grouses. “Lemme get a shower.”  
  
The smile breaks over Jared's face immediately. It practically makes his whole head glow. “Yay!”  
  
“You didn't just say that,” Jensen informs him, and before the squirming in his stomach can turn into pit bulls that bust out and make him do something really stupid like raping Jared in his own kitchen, Jensen makes his escape to the shower.  
  
Jared's bathroom is weirdly nice. It's clearly been decorated by a professional, but the smooth adult look is ruined by the rubber ducky shower curtain and the framed Spongebob picture above the toilet. But Jensen's not really thinking about the decor, because it's Jared's bathroom, where Jared gets naked and wet and probably sweaty, where Jared pretty much definitely jerks off, and that's...a _really_ good thing.  
  
If Jensen wasn't hung over and just generally feeling crappy, he probably would've showered and gotten dressed and just left it at that. But instead he strips and turns on the shower, cranking it up till steam is billowing out of the enclosure, and wraps his hand around his dick.  
  
He ought to do this in the shower; that's the polite way, at any rate. But Jensen's brain is stuck on Jared's huge fucking eyes, and the way he licks and bites his lower lip, and his hands flexing around the water bottle, and his freakish long limbs, and—fucking _Jared_ , crowding out everything else in his brain, including the part that regulates manners and common sense.  
  
It feels like jumping into a pool in the middle of a Texas summer: instant, almost painful relief, that skyrockets to desperation instantly. He'd planned on getting into the shower at some point, but—god, he's leaning against the door, he can see himself in the _mirror,_ and there is no way on God's green earth this should be as hot as it is.  
  
“Why not?” Jared asks, appearing out of nowhere. “I'm the hottest thing you've seen in years, aren't I?”  
  
Jensen groans, his hand speeding up, when fantasy-Jared smiles. “You wanna suck me,” he whispers, moving closer. “You want to spread me out and fuck me with your tongue till I'm begging you for more. You wanna bend me over the sink, right here, and give me bruises I'll be feeling for a week.”  
  
“Fuck,” he says quietly—but not quietly enough, so he brings his left hand up to his mouth, biting down on it hard. _Jared._  
  
“Yeah,” Jared breathes, moving closer. “C'mon, Jen, just do it. I want you, you know I do. And you want me. You practically fucking _love_ me.”  
  
Pain, almost blinding, as Jensen clenches his teeth around his finger, fucking his own fist harder.   
  
Jared's pressed up against him now, dwarfing him, his gigantor shoulders and huge body pinning Jensen to the wall. “And I love you, too,” Jared whispers in his ear. The words sound filthy, dirty, and when Jared lines his dick up with Jensen's and thrusts, holding Jensen still, the fantasy dissolves and Jensen comes into his fist, on the floor, groaning against his hand and slumping against Jared's bathroom door.  
  
The room is cold, empty—and Jensen's come is on the tile, the bathroom rug. _Fuck._  
  
Jensen wipes up the mess, grimacing, and hops into the shower. It's probably too much to ask for the scalding water to distract him; he's not overly surprised when it doesn't. He washes himself as quickly as possibly and then gets out, avoiding the mirror.  
  
“ _Finally._ ” Jared is fully dressed and pacing impatiently when Jensen exits the bathroom. “Thought you were gonna be in there fore— _Christ!_ ”  
  
Jensen watches, amused, as Jared drops his toast on the floor. “Call me Jensen,” he says, feeling more than a little cocky.  
  
Jared scowls at him. “You just, you could warn a guy before blinding him with your nipples.”  
  
Some people seize the moment, but Jensen's best at grabbing the moment, strangling it, and then beating it into submission. “What's the matter, Jay? Can't handle knowing there's better-looking guys than you on the show?”  
  
Jared laughs outright at that. “Prettier, maybe,” he says. “Now hurry up and get dressed. Build-A-Bear's closing early today, Sunday 'n' all.  
  
“Right.” That's one part of their trip that Jensen's kind of carefully not thinking about, on account of how it's _insane._ “Got any clothes I can borrow?”  
  
||  
  
“I am going to _kill_ you.”  
  
“Aw, Jen, I didn't know you cared.”  
  
“I am going to shoot you in the legs so you can't run off, carve you up into tiny pieces, feed you your own skin, and then flush each piece of your body down a different gas station toilet.”  
  
Jared blinks. “You ever feel like maybe you've thought about this a little too much?”  
  
“Death,” Jensen says vehemently. “Destruction. Despair.”  
  
“Also, teddy bears.”  
  
Now it's Jensen's turn to be confused, because Jared's lips definitely haven't moved, and he's pretty sure that Sam's the psychic one, not Jay. “Huh?”  
  
Then he turns around and, of fucking _course_ , there's Mike and Justin. Because of course Justin's just sociopathic enough to instantly become Mike's best friend, or whatever.  
  
If pictures of Jensen in a huge plaid shirt and shiny leather pants are all over the tabloids tomorrow, he'll know who else to kill. “Fuck.”  
  
“Not when you're looking like that, but thanks for the invitation.” Justin smirks.  
  
“Jared,” Jensen says levelly. “I've changed my mind.”  
  
“Um.”  
  
“I'm going to kill you _and_ them, and then I'm feeding y'all to the dogs.”  
  
“Protein's good for them,” Mike agrees amiably.   
  
“Y'all're both terrifying,” Jared says. “Now come _on_ , Jen, I called ahead and told 'em we'd be here.”  
  
Jensen groans, feeling incredibly sorry for himself, as Jared practically yanks his arm out of its socket in an effort to get Jensen into the whimsical, kid-filled Build-a-Bear shop. Mike and Justin trail behind, wearing identical smarmy smirk, jostling each other and snickering.  
  
Death, Jensen thinks again. _Death._  
  
The woman behind the counter is more than happy to see them, greeting them with a smile that, to Jensen's shock, doesn't seem even a little ironic. He's kind of tempted to rip a teddy bear's head off or set the store on fire just to see if that makes the annoying sunshiney smile slide off her face.  
  
Well, okay, not really, because there are a bunch of cute little kids running around. And it's not like he _likes_ little kids, or anything, but one of them's wearing a Santa sweater and making her bear dance around, and another has on little Rudolph horns, and they're just. They look really happy, and Jensen's not _that_ big a bastard.  
  
When Mike starts explaining the facts of life to a wide-eyed kid using the anatomically incorrect bears, though, Jensen certainly doesn't stop him.  
  
“Our bears come in all different shapes and sizes, and of course you can accessorize them however you like,” the woman chirps. “They're very well-made, as you'll see when you stuff yours. Are you sure you wouldn't rather bring your child here to pick one out?”  
  
Wait, what? “Child?” Jensen repeats, dumbfounded.  
  
Jared laughs. “Oh, it's not for a kid,” he says cheerfully. “It's a present for Jen here.”  
  
Now the woman looks surprised. Of fucking _course,_ Jensen thinks, and briefly contemplates flat-out suicide.   
  
“Well, then,” she says finally. “I suppose—that is, I mean—“  
  
Jensen abruptly realizes that he's glaring at her. Instead of letting up, he just slowly raises one eyebrow.  
  
“So,” she says a minute later, voice unnaturally high. “I suppose you'll want a boy bear.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jensen says in his best 'you couldn't possibly be a bigger idiot' voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mike cracking up. “Preferably with leather.”  
  
“Well, ah, we don't have any leather, I'm afraid, but we do have some lovely plaid. And,” the woman adds hastily when Jensen's glare intensifies, “some very pre—manly! Manly sweaters. For winter. And we sell larger teddy bears of course, for our older customers.”  
  
An idea—a mean, horrible, _diabolical_ idea—blooms in Jensen's mind. “Right,” he says, smiling evilly. “Why don't you show me, then.”  
  
The woman looks like she'd rather die, but she obediently leads him over to a catalog with different bear sizes. “Our largest is five feet tall,” she says.  
  
“Price?” Jensen asks innocently.  
  
She hesitates for a moment. “With clothing, an even one hundred dollars.”  
  
He doesn't cackle and yell, “Revenge is mine!”, because discretion is the better part of valor, and stuff. Instead he just smiles sweetly. “I'll take that one.”  
  
“Ah. Okay,” she says. “Now, why don't we pick out some clothing?”  
  
Jensen's kind of hoping that the most expensive outfit is at least marginally manly, but instead it's a rhinestone-studded ballerina costume. Maybe he can get Kripke to let him shrink one of Sam's hoodies for the monster, or something.  
  
“That one,” he says, pointing to the tutu.  
  
“Are you sure?” the woman all but squeaks.  
  
Jared's staring at him, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. Jensen resolutely doesn't think about exactly what he'd like to do about that. “Yeah,” he says. “That one.”  
  
“Okay,” the woman says doubtfully, and unhooks it. “Now, time to fill your bear up with love!”  
  
That sounds nine different kinds of wrong, two of which Justin is currently explaining to a middle school kid. Jensen favors Jared with a wide, deranged grin before following the woman over to...  
  
A row of hearts. Good _God._  
  
The woman hands him one with the same kind of attitude Jensen used to feed Tom's pet snake with. “We generally ask our customer to kiss it and make a wish,” she says warily.  
  
Jensen examines the heart for a moment before looking up and making eye contact with Jared. Slowly, deliberately, he licks the heart, tongue fluttering in the crack at the top.   
  
Jared looks away, but Jensen can see his throat work. He counts it as a victory.  
  
“Here you go,” he says, handing the woman the sticky heart.  
  
She looks disgusted, but clearly was born with at least a little common sense, since she doesn't say a word. “I'll just get him—ah, her—stuffed,” she says, and walks off. Jensen suspects he's supposed to follow her and maybe cry while he watches his wonderful new teddy bear get all...teddy-ified, but instead he leans against a display and watches Mike dangle a lollipop above a toddler's head.  
  
“So,” Jared says. “Next time I'll maybe give you some real clothes.”  
  
Jensen plucks at the oversized leather pants that are sagging around his ass. “Damn fucking straight you will.”  
  
“And not invite Mike and Justin.”  
  
“That might be a moot point,” Jensen says, “since I think they're about to get tossed on their asses anyway.”  
  
“Heh.” Jared grins. “So, um. What're you gonna do with the bear?”  
  
“Keep it in my living room. What else?” Jensen smirks as a burly biker type menaces Mike. “It'll make a good—what're those things called?”  
  
“Conversation pieces.”  
  
“Right, yeah, those.”  
  
“Well. I guess it's a good gift, then.”  
  
Jensen feels something twist inside, like his stomach is being tugged at. _Ah, fuck._ Jared's a kickass actor, and the wistfulness in his voice is probably completely manufactured—but Jensen feels like a bastard anyway. “It was a good gift, Jay,” he says, letting his voice soften. “I liked it.”  
  
Jared's gets this smile, this stupid huge happy _grin_ , and jumps on Jensen, squeezing the hell out of him. They're having a real moment when a familiar saccharine voice says, “See, that's what Build-A-Bear is about. Uniting friends and...ah, loved ones, with the love conveyed by a teddy bear.”  
  
“Don't kill her,” Jared says in his ear, and it's all Jensen can do not to shiver.  
  
“I'll try,” he mutters, turning around and gritting his teeth.  
  
She's standing there, holding up the bear. Its costume is glittery and ostentatious, its bear-smile annoying. And it's ridiculously huge.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, snatching it away from her badly manicured hands and pulling Jared towards the door.  
  
“You guys come back, now!” she calls after him.  
  
Jensen scowls and rolls up a sleeve of the too-big plaid shirt. “Not fucking likely,” he says, clutching the bear and scowling at anyone with the nerve to stare.  
  
||  
  
He means to keep the bear in the corner, but somehow it ends up living on Jensen's couch. Kristen—Bell, not Kreuk, who thinks the whole thing is kind of insane—takes an unholy delight in sitting in the thing's lap whenever he comes over, and Justin always messes with the tutu.  
  
The real reason, though, is one that Jensen doesn't even like admitting to himself unless it's midnight and he's making friends with his right hand again. The reason that starts with an “m” and ends with “akes Jared happy”.  
  
Because every time Jared sees the stupid stuffed monstrosity sitting on Jensen's couch he gets that smile again, the too-soft, too-happy smile that makes Jensen want to either kiss the hell out of him or shove him in a nice bear-filled room somewhere where he'll never learn that people, across the board, are rotten little fuckers. And that look is definitely worth the weird looks and smirks he gets whenever people see the bear draped over the arm of the couch or standing on its head with its arms shoved in a seat cushion.  
  
And after awhile the bear starts to be kind of a good thing. Like, when Jared drafts Jensen into helping with the decorations for his crazy-ass party, Jensen brings the bear along so Tom can see it in all its rhinestoned glory. And it's kind of funny when Jensen threatens to shove it in the garbage disposal and Mike clutches it like his life depends on it.  
  
So, yeah. After a month or so he's gotten used to it. Hell, the thing's even useful for keeping a bottle of whiskey upright.  
  
In retrospect, bringing the bear to Jared's Christmas throwdown made absolutely no sense. But when he considers how symbolic the bear had become, and how much Jared and the rest of the CW people love it, showing up on Jared's doorstep with tequila and Barney the Ballerina Bear makes perfect sense.  
  
What happens afterwards, though, doesn't.  
  
||  
  
“Merry Christmas! Two days late, even!” Jared says, jamming a Santa hat down on Jensen's head. Jensen grimaces and tosses the bear at Jared's face.  
  
“Oh my God, Jared, you pathetic drunk.” Erica grabs the bear. “Hello there, Barney, you handsome devil!”  
  
“Anyone who comes onto a bear doesn't get to make claims of sobri...sober...ness,” Jared tells her, sticking his tongue out.   
  
Jensen rolls his eyes. “Hey, Jared, think I can talk Allison into body shots?”  
  
“Doubt it, but Chad's always up for some.” Jared grins, and his eyes flick up and down Jensen's body. “Merry Christmas to you too, by the way.”  
  
Jared's not a sloppy drunk, or a sad drunk, or even really a happy drunk. What he is is a _horny_ drunk—and Jensen notes with dismay that his eyes are bright and his smile...should be illegal. Really, really should be.  
  
Son of a _bitch,_ he thinks, and forces a smile. “Let's go ask him,” he says, flinging an arm over Jared's shoulders.  
  
The apartment is covered with twinkling Christmas lights and gyrating bodies. Some weird alt-country shit is making the walls vibrate, and a huge cardboard Grinch is glaring at everyone from the corner. Jensen abandons the teddy bear on Jared's enormous La-Z-Boy, letting Jared drag him over to where Chad's hooting and hollering and generally making a moron out of himself.  
  
“So then,” he slurs, stumbling and letting himself be pushed onto Jason's lap, “then I said to her, I said. Sophia, I said, you are a _bitch._ ”  
  
“And?” Kristen—Bell again, Kreuk is off doing something mature, probably involving champagne and coherent sentences—asks, her eyes glimmering evilly.  
  
“And then,” he says, flinging his arms out wide, “she dumped me!”  
  
There's a stunned pause before he adds, “Tha's why I like her. Smart girl.”  
  
“Oh my God, Chad,” Jensen hears himself say. “It's like watching a train wreck.”  
  
“Sad,” Kristen agrees.  
  
Chad swings around. “Jensen!” he cries out with delight. “It's my buddy Jensen!”  
  
From behind him, Jensen hears a choked laugh: Jared. “Hi, man,” he says, wincing when Chad envelopes him in a full-body hug.  
  
“Hi!” Chad says cheerfully. “Hey, Jen, didja hear about how Sophia dumped me? It was cool. Um, if it'd been anyone but me.”  
  
“Thanks, but I read about it in the _Enquirer._ ” Jensen very carefully sets Chad away from him. “You let him have alcohol,” he says to Jared accusingly.  
  
Jared shrugs. “I let you have alcohol, don't I?”  
  
A valid point he can't argue. Dammit. “Yeah, but,” he says.  
  
“Come on, Jensen, loosen up.” Kristen's bounced up from where she's sitting, a beer in one hand and Tina's tit in the other.  
  
Jensen blinks, but the image doesn't go away. Kristen...is groping her costar.  
  
Shit, it's _contagious._  
  
“Yeah, Jensen,” Tina says perkily. “Loosen up. Have a little fun.”  
  
And Jared, God, Jared's just _staring_ at him, and it feels—it feels like the dirtiest touch Jensen's ever been given, and a shiver goes up Jensen's spine like Jared's just run one huge finger up it. It's just the alcohol and Jensen knows it, because him and Jared, they've gone straight through the insane attraction and come out best friends, and they just. They don't _do_ this.  
  
Except Jensen jerks off thinking about Jared wet and naked, and Jared's eyeing him like he's a juicy t-bone, so maybe they do.  
  
“Come on, Jen,” Tina says, running a hand down Kristen's back and cupping her ass. “Cut loose.”  
  
They're both very, very drunk, but that doesn't stop the messy, giggly kiss the two girls share from being impossibly hot. Kristen's biting Tina's lower lip, rubbing her thumb over Tina's nipple, and Tina's moved her hand around to Kristen's cunt, slipping under her dress with the ease of practice.  
  
Jared's already managed to make Jensen blindingly hard, but seeing two hot girls go at it right in front of him has Jensen backing up, trying hard to think of something other than _ohGodneedsexnownow **now**_.  
  
It doesn't help that Jared follows, backing him into a corner. “C'mon, Jen,” he murmurs, tugging at the Santa hat. “S'ok if we do, no one's gonna remember tomorrow morning anyway.”  
  
And then Mike's slipping by, pressing a pair of handcuffs into Jensen's hands, and...well, Jared's drunk off his ass, and so is everyone else in the house, and Jensen's honestly going to do the smart, mature thing and get the hell out of here when Jared licks his lips, leans in, and kisses the hell out of Jensen.  
  
_Fuck._ It's beyond good, leaves the best kiss he's ever had in the dust, not because Jared's the most fantastic kisser in the world but because he's _Jared_ , and that fact alone is enough to have his cheeks burning, because. _Fuck._ He's really in trouble this time.  
  
Jared lets go of the Santa hat and backs off. “I'm. I'm kinda drunk, a lot,” he says, trailing a finger down Jensen's chin. “Is this okay? I don't...please say it's okay, Jen.”  
  
He's searching Jensen's eyes, his lips all pursed and concerned, and Jensen's entire body feels like fizzing soda, like someone's boiling his blood, and he's got no excuse—not liquor, not drugs, nothing but pure lust—for pulling Jared in and kissing him again, biting and sucking and thrusting against Jared's hip.  
  
“It's okay, Jay,” he says, low and hot, and then Jared's got him pinned against the wall and Jensen's moving up, twining his legs with Jared's and flexing in a way he didn't even know he could.  
  
“Oh God, Jensen,” Jared says, thrusting roughly. “We can't—can't do this here.” He leans in and kisses Jensen again, and Jensen's entire world shifts and realigns. One of them—Jensen doesn't know, doesn't _care_ , who—moans. “Gotta. Gotta get up—my room, I told ever'one to stay out—“  
  
And he'll have time later to be humiliated that Jared _carries_ him up the stairs, with Jensen moaning like a slut and cupping his own crotch, rubbing himself as he kisses Jared's neck, his jaw. He's wanted this too damn long to be able to exercise anything like restraint.  
  
Jared stumbles into the bedroom and falls onto the bed, his legs sprawling, arms flexing over his head when he lets go of Jensen. Jensen's legs are spread wide, stretched over Jared's lap, and he's—  
  
Holding the leather handcuffs. And Jared's looking at him expectantly, and. Jesus.  
  
“C'mon, Jen,” Jared murmurs, voice low and slutty. “Don't you wanna have some fun? 's Christmas.”  
  
Jensen should walk out, and he knows it. He should put the handcuffs down, climb off Jared's lap, and _walk the fuck out._  
  
So of course he smiles dirtily, opens up the handcuffs, and fastens them securely on Jared's wrists. “I,” he says low in Jared's ear, pushing Jared's shirt up and twisting his nipple, “am gonna ride you 'till we both drop.”  
  
Jared groans, letting his head fall back, his arms flexing. “Not planning on complaining,” he says, voice tight.  
  
Jensen smirks, sliding down Jared's body. The shirt can stay, for now, but Jensen makes quick work of Jared's pants, throwing them on the floor and smirking at Jared's rubber-ducky boxers.  
  
“Not a word,” Jared says, wrapping a leg around Jensen's back and rubbing his heel up and down Jensen's spine. That heady feeling of oh-God-can't-believe-this-is-happening returns, so Jensen doesn't reply, opting instead for pulling the boxers down and off and wrapping his hand around Jared's dick.  
  
It's big—not huge, but bigger than normal, like the rest of Jared. Jensen leans down and wraps his mouth around the head, sucking like it's going out of style—and Jared lets out a choked moan, squirming, arms flexing like they're fighting the handcuffs. It's ridiculously hot, hot enough that Jensen closes his eyes and opens his throat and just goes _down_ , tongue tracing patters on the shaft, hands gripping Jared's hips hard enough to bruise as he swallows around Jared's cock.  
  
Jensen doesn't particularly like giving blowjobs. It's decent foreplay, and it makes the other person his willing slave, so he does it—but it's never been really hot or something he actively wants to do. But Jared's writhing underneath him, making little whimpering noises and whispering “Jen, Jen,” like it's a prayer, and. This is Jared's _cock_ in his mouth, _Jared_ , and that fact alone has Jensen painfully, dizzyingly hard as Jared fucks his mouth.  
  
He lets himself moan around Jared's dick and Jared tenses, bites his lip. “Jensen. Jen, _please._ ”  
  
And Jensen stops.  
  
For a second Jared looks like he's going to kill Jensen on the spot, until Jensen backs off and slides up Jared's body again, settling in his lap.  
  
“Fuck me,” Jensen breaths, biting Jared's earlobe.  
  
Jared tenses, freezes, and for a second Jensen thinks he's done something really fucking stupid—and then Jared's kissing him, leg twined around Jensen's back.  
  
“Hell yeah,” Jared breathes, grinding against Jensen's hips.  
  
“I need—”  
  
“Over there. Nightstand.” Jared jerks his head to the right, muscles rippling like something out of one of those stupid romance books.   
  
Jensen can't stop himself; he leans down and licks the sweat off Jared's arm, pressing a kiss to the skin.  
  
Jared laughs. “You freak,” he says, the affection obvious. It shouldn't make Jensen blush—they're both practically naked and Jared's fucked Jensen's _mouth_ , but there's a huge difference between sex and...this, and he barely knows what to do.  
  
So he rolls off Jared, pulling open the drawer, tracing circles on Jared's inner thigh with one hand and pulling out the lube and condom with the other.  
  
The motions are easy, familiar—tearing open the condom package and rolling it down Jared's cock— slicking him up—smirking when Jared gasps and writhes helplessly under him—  
  
And sinking down, letting his mouth fall open as Jared's entire body spasms, feeling himself pushed open until his entire skin is too small to hold them both and tiny prickles of heat are spreading over his skin.  
  
It's not familiar at all now, not comforting or normal or any other adjective that means ordinary. This is—fucking _weird_ , is what this is, Jared whispering endearments, Jensen gasping wordlessly as he fucks himself on Jared's cock.  
  
“God, Jay,” Jensen hears himself say, thrusting down roughly. “How do you—fuck. Fuck, I can't—“  
  
“So don't.” Jared's teeth flash white in a too-brilliant smile. “C'mon, Jen, 's not that complicated.”  
  
And it isn't—or it shouldn't be, at any rate, but it of course is for Jensen, and he grits his teeth and tightens around Jared's dick and tries to forget that he won't have this again.  
  
“Jen, oh fuck, _Jensen,_ ” and Jared's bucking up, more flexible than anyone that huge has a right to be, wrapping himself around, _in_ Jensen, and Jensen's—  
  
Coming hard, almost embarrassingly so, all over Jared's chest. Leaning back on Jared's legs and working his hips in a slow, rough, almost vicious circle until Jared's eyes widen in surprise and his entire body jerks. Moaning in satisfaction when Jared says, “I. I didn't _know,_ ” he says with the wide-eyed astonishment of a kid who's just got his ass stung by a hornet.  
  
“Yeah, me neither,” Jensen says, and rolls off of Jared. He just manages to spring the catch on Jared's handcuffs before falling asleep, sprawled across Jared's lap.  
  
||  
  
The sun is bright and warm and cheerful and _bright_ , and logically Jensen knows he didn't have anything to drink last night, but _fuck_ , he feels hungover.  
  
And he's. Lying across Jared's lap, and Jared's stroking his hair way too softly.  
  
When Jensen blinks up at him, Jared smiles. “Hey there, Smeckles.”  
  
And Jensen knows that he's completely, utterly, undeniably screwed.  
  
||  
 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**  
  
||  
  
It's been three days since Jensen's brain was temporarily abducted by aliens.  
  
Hey, it's as plausible an explanation as any.  
  
He's been avoiding Jared, which all in all is probably a good idea, except that it's back to filming in two days, and Jensen still feels like shooting himself every time he so much as thinks of Jared. If he had a psychologist, they'd be telling him it wasn't healthy.  
  
But Jensen doesn't have a shrink; he just has Chris.  
  
“I'm tellin' you, man, I fucked up big time on this.”  
  
There's a long silence, and then Chris inhales slowly. “Don't see how.”  
  
Jensen briefly considers heading down to LA again just so he can kick Chris's ass. “Have you been listening to a word I've said? I fucked him!”  
  
“Yeah, and?”  
  
“I fucked _Jared Padalecki._ I fucked my costar. I fucked the biggest fucking _slut_ on the CW!” By the time his little tirade is over, Jensen's voice has risen almost impossibly high; there aren't words for how much he doesn't care.  
  
“Still don't see—aw, wait, yeah I do. Jensen, you fuckin' _girl._ ”  
  
“What're you talking about?”  
  
“'s not that you fucked Jared—who, let's face it, is a damn _nice_ tall drink'a water, and if I could stand Canadian winters I'd be up there gettin' a piece of him.” Chris cackles lecherously. “Nah. You just want him all for yourself, and you know that's never going to happen.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Jensen says quickly, but even he can hear that he's lying.  
  
“What you're spouting? Gotta agree with that one.” Smirks, unfortunately, don't carry over phone lines—but Jensen'd bet all he owns and then some that Chris is sporting a hell of a self-righteous, smug look right now.  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
“All you can do is cuss,” Chris muses, lazy. “Yep. You're in love.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, man, or I'll—“  
  
The number one man on Jensen's nice new hit list laughs. “What? Cry on my shoulder?” Light words, but his tone is dead serious. “Jen. You're gonna get yourself hurt with this one.”  
  
Chris's always had a talent for saying the really fucking obvious. “Don't call me Jen,” he says, and hits the little red button on his phone.  
  
And just like that, he's shut Chris up—hell of a lot more convenient than actually hanging around the guy. The problem is that he's still got...thoughts. Bad thoughts, about how Chris can judge character like Jensen's old pitt bull, and he knows Jensen well enough to not need a crystal ball for this one.  
  
Chris is never wrong, except when he is; and even then it turns out that he's not.  
  
||  
  
“So, um.”  
  
_How's your ass? Sorry I was such an enormous whore, and that I'm annoyingly hot and slutty. Oh, and that you're in love with me because of my stupid smile and legs and idiotic jokes and shit._  
  
“Could Sam's shirts get any gayer? I mean, seriously. Fagville, USA, right here.”  
  
Not exactly what Jensen had been hoping for.  
  
“They could be pink,” he says without thinking.  
  
Jared cocks an eyebrow. “Like half the shirts in your closet, you mean?”  
  
He's got a point—an _embarrassing_ point, so Jensen places a flat palm on Jared's chest and shoves.  
  
Jared doesn't budge an inch, though, and Jensen...doesn't think he was really expecting him to, except now he's standing inches away from Jared and they're both breathing hard and Jensen's hand is splayed over where he's pretty sure Jared'll still have bruises and they're at work and this is bad, bad, _really fucking bad._  
  
Real men don't cut and run, so it's probably a good thing Jensen's been living the life of a chickenshit pussy for the past ten years or so. He snatches his hand off, grabs a donut, and waves goodbye to Eric, who's swooping in on them like a skinny deranged man-hawk.  
  
It's a mark of how fucked up things are that Jared doesn't call. Thirty minutes of Jensen jogging across Vancouver, and not a peep. Normally if he was acting this stupid he'd have Jared all over his ass, demanding to know what was wrong so that Jared could kill it.  
  
Except that this time, what's wrong is wrong with Jared too, and he knows—and remembers—way more than Jensen would like.  
  
“So you came to me for love advice.”  
  
Jensen nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”  
  
“I'm, uh, flattered.” Justin's face is usually pretty expressionless, but right now the Mona Lisa'd be easier to read. “Especially considering that you've known me for what, three months?”  
  
“But you're married.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And you're _married._ ” Jensen's starting to feel a little desperate—and stupid. Oh God, what if Mike is right and he's one teardrop away from turning into the prettiest princess on the CW?  
  
“Yeah, I got lucky.” Justin shrugs. “I can't help you, man. It's different for different people, and Jared. Well.”  
  
“He's a slut,” Jensen intones. He's practically got it etched on his bathroom mirror. “I know. I just.”  
  
“You're not different.”  
  
“Hey, what—“  
  
“You're not.” Justin shakes his head. “Look, Jared's a great guy, but he's not personal. He's kind of like a giant hairy vibrator with really bad clothing taste—totally quick and detached. No commitments.”  
  
It's the worst metaphor ever, so of course Jensen gets it perfectly. “Thanks for the depressing non-advice, man,” he says, slamming the beer bottle down on Martha Kent's kitchen table.  
  
“Any time,” Justin says mildly.  
  
Jensen's vaguely certain that Justin smirks at him as he slinks out.  
  
||  
  
“You're doing Jared.”  
  
“ _Did_ Jared.”  
  
“You're doing Jared Padalecki, the Whore of CW-ylon.”  
  
“You're not smart, and it's past tense.”  
  
“Fuck you. It's not past tense in your head till the other person's done the whole heart ripped out of your ribcage and stomped on routine.” Chad sets the weights back into the bar with a loud _clank._ “Actually, you know, you're kind of a masochist.”  
  
“So, had any luck with getting that pesky statutory rape law repealed?”  
  
“We're not talking about my problems, dipshit.”  
  
It's too valid a point for Jensen to argue, but he does anyway. “Well, maybe we should be. I'm not the one boning jailbait.”  
  
“No, you're just the one boning your coworker, who happens to play your brother.” Chad's voice is cheerfully malicious. “Come on, Jensen. You screwed yourself over with this one, might as well admit it.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No, you won't admit it, or no, you didn't screw yourself over?”  
  
“I didn't—”  
  
And Chad, cackling, drops a twenty-pound weight on Jensen's toe.  
  
||  
  
“I am going to _kill you._ ”  
  
“Um,” Jensen says, leaning heavier on his cane. His fucking _cane_ , because Chad broke the arch of his left foot.  
  
“I will slice you up into tiny little pieces and feed you to Padalecki's dogs,” Eric says fervently. Jensen blinks—that was supposed to be his plan. “Do you have any idea how far this is gonna set us back? We're going to have to come up with an injury for Dean! Rework plotlines! Change characters' fates! Make a _cane_ look cool!”  
  
By the end of his speech, Eric was actually flapping his hands. “Whoa,” Jensen says in alarm. “Calm down, alright? We'll work this out.”  
  
“No, we won't,” Eric tells him, “because I'm going to kill you. _I_ will work this out, and _you_ will grovel and beg for my mercy.”  
  
Not for the first time, Jensen mentally notes that Eric is a complete maniac.  
  
“Padalecki, you watch him,” Eric says, clutching his head in both hands. “Watch him like a _hawk_. Ackles...you get into any more trouble, I swear, I will have your head.”  
  
After Eric stomps off, Jared crosses his arms and cocks his head, regarding Jensen with what looks a lot like an amused glint in his eye.  
  
“What?” Jensen snaps, the awkward tension that's been his best buddy since Christmas filling him almost immediately.  
  
“How in the world didja get a weight dropped on your toes?” Jared snaps his gum obnoxiously.  
  
“Chad,” Jensen says. “Fucker can't even lift twenty pounds, apparently.”  
  
“Hmm.” Jared leans against the trailer, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back away from the wood. “I can.”  
  
Images from Christmas fill Jensen's head. He forces himself to look away—Jared, the slut, knows exactly what he's doing, and Jensen refuses to play along with his little game.  
  
But then his eyes stray back, because Jared's rolling his head and kind of cocking his hips, looking for all the world like some whore advertising the goods. Which is exactly what he is, except that Jared doesn't even get paid, he just fucks for fun, and. And now Jensen's thinking about Jared fucking, which is so incredibly bad that his brain doesn't even have room for panic when Jared grabs Jensen and flings him over his shoulder.  
  
“Hey!” Jensen yelps indignantly. “Lemme go!”  
  
Jared laughs. “Not a chance,” he says. “Eric told me to keep an eye on you, remember?”  
  
“He didn't say to touch me!”  
  
A big hand strokes up Jensen's calf. “What's the matter, Jen?” Jared asks, his voice suddenly soft. “You got a problem with my hands on you?”  
  
Jensen gulps. “Uh,” he says, not trusting his brain to form words.  
  
“I like touchin' you, Jensen.” And abruptly Jensen feels himself being set back on the ground so that he's looking at Jared's neck.  
  
Jared cups his chin and tilts his head up. Jensen briefly considers decking the idiot—but Jared's eyes are so fucking. Well. _Soft_ , that Jensen can't move.  
  
“Hopefully once your foot gets healed up I'll be able to do it a little more,” Jared continues. The hand that's not stroking Jensen's chin snakes around his back, pulling him closer (or, actually, making him limp closer. Motherfucking _Murray_ ).   
  
“I kinda wanted to do a little more than this,” Jared says, voice near a whisper, “but I guess I can settle for a kiss. For now.”  
  
And then, before Jensen has a chance to protest or shove Jared away or run—limp—like hell, Jared's lips are covering his.  
  
He thought, at Christmas, that the world spinning was just an aftereffect of all the partying. But here in Jensen's trailer they're both completely sober, level-headed and well-rested, and Jared's kiss is still making Jensen feel like he's hopped down the rabbit hole.  
  
Jared's lips are narrow, chapped; it's obvious he doesn't take very good care of them. His mouth tastes vaguely like nachos, and his scruff will leave Jensen chafed. It's an imperfect kiss, awkward, like they're both teenagers again, but Jensen's arms come up to pull Jared closer and he opens his mouth wider because none of that _shit_ matters, this is the most fantastic thing he's ever felt, barring absolutely nothing.  
  
“Jared,” he says, a vague half-formed plan of rejection in his mind.  
  
They break away, just a little, and Jared smiles. “Yeah?”  
  
Maybe he could've managed it if looking Jared in the eye while the guy was beaming wasn't like looking straight-on at the sun. “I,” he says, and then he's yanked Jared closer for a kiss that's all tongue and teeth, hard and rough and desperate.  
  
Jensen's really kind of an idiot.  
  
But this kiss is _better_ than the best thing. It's like punching God in the face and stealing heaven from him.  
  
Jared's hand has slid from Jensen's chin to the back of his neck, and one blunt finger is dipping beneath Jensen's collar, rubbing his spine. It's a fucking weird place to touch someone, but Jensen feels himself moving closer, making noises in the back of his throat and spreading his hands over Jared's ass, squeezing.  
  
“Oh God,” Jared gasps, pulling away. “Jensen—“  
  
“Fuck,” Jensen says, and forces himself to step away. “That. That wasn't supposed to. Um.”  
  
“No, it's okay.” Jared runs a hand through his hair, his face practically collapsed inwards on itself from frustration. “I get it. We both—um. Yeah. Never happened, right?”  
  
And there's something subtly wrong about that opening, too easy and simple, that Jensen ought to be picking up on. He knows it. But his foot hurts, and his head is spinning, and he's too hard to even see straight, so right now he just nods. “Right, yeah.”  
  
“So, uh. Wanna go to Tim Hortons?”  
  
The last thing he wants right now is to watch Jared shove a sandwich into his freakishly huge mouth or see him slurp coffee like it's the Elixir of Life, but turning Jared down would just make him pout and impersonate a puppy, which might actually be worse.  
  
Jared volunteers to drive them, but the shop's only two blocks away, so Jensen glares and says he's got a gimp foot, not a peg-leg. Jared just laughs.  
  
“You've got a block, maybe, before I end up carrying you.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Jensen says. “Just because I've got a cane doesn't mean I'm an old man.”  
  
“Okay!” Jared smiles sunnily, and Jensen wonders just how much damage this cane could do to his head. All that hair would probably be pretty good protection...  
  
“Stop thinking about smacking me and c'mon.” Jared grabs his hand and, like a child, tugs him down the sidewalk.  
  
“Alright, alright, I'm comin'!” Jensen half-hobbles, half-hops along behind Jared, tugging ineffectually on the hand Jared's clutching. He could get Jared to let go of him if he had to, but...well. He doesn't _want_ to.  
  
Half a block would normally be no problem, so he's more than a little surprised—and annoyed as hell—when he trips over a tiny rock and goes flying.  
  
Ow. Ow, ow, and also _ow._ Sidewalks are clearly an invention of Satan; Jensen groans and winces, feeling the gravel cut into his palms.  
  
“Holy shit, Jensen.” Hands helping him up, patting his back and brushing dust off his back, his ass—completely unnecessary. Jensen scowls.  
  
“Wandering hands, Jay.”  
  
“”Sorry.” His voice is everything but apologetic, but he at least pulls away. “See, I told you we should've drove.”  
  
“Driven. We should've driven.” Jensen plants his cane firmly and grimaces because, yeah, his foot is _killing_ him.”  
  
“Whatever.” There's a brief moment of silence. Jensen looks up just in time to see Jared eying him speculatively.  
  
“Jay,” he says warningly, but he's too late—Jared darts forward, wraps his hands around Jensen's waist, and _lifts._  
  
Once again, Jensen finds himself staring at Jared's ass. “What the fuck, man,” he says flatly.  
  
“I told you I'd have to carry you,” Jared says gaily—or maybe that should be gayly. “You owe me lunch, now.”  
  
“I owe you a beating,” Jensen practically growls, wiggling. “Put me down!”  
  
Things go from bad to worse when Jared laughs and starts walking, jiggling Jensen with every step. They go from worse to _oh fuck, please just kill me now_ when Jared whacks Jensen's ass with Jensen's own cane. “Hush up,” Jared says, playful.  
  
“Oh, Christ,” Jensen groans. “Jay, c'mon...”  
  
There's silence for a moment, which is kind of weird given that isn't now when Jared should be teasing him mercilessly? But then Jensen stiffens and realizes that—well. Jared's shoulders are tight and his hand is immobile against Jensen's leg, and this is.  
  
Very, _very_ interesting.  
  
“Well, well, well,” he says, doing his best to sound seductive and not like a semi-cripple being held in an uncomfortable fireman's carry. “Something you'd like to tell me, Jay?”  
  
“Shut up,” Jared says, voice sounding strangled.  
  
Jensen's had to remind himself way too many times today that no, we are not going to flirt with the enormous man-slut, and he's reminding himself again now—except that somehow it doesn't matter. “Or what? You gonna spank me or something?”  
  
“Cut it out, man.”  
  
“You might get arrested,” Jensen says mock-thoughtfully. “But it'd be worth it, right? Maybe after that I'd behave.”  
  
“Jensen, I'm warning you, I will take you back to my place and _rape you_ if you don't shut the hell up.”  
  
Jared's not serious, of course, and Jensen knows it, but something in Jared's tone—the almost-panic that Jensen hasn't heard since the old days of Season One filming when they were still getting used to working together and Jensen was pretty much continually saying something that made Jared blush like a virgin—makes him shut up anyway.  
  
“You do realize we're gettin' all kinds of funny looks, right?” Jensen asks when Jared stops at the crosswalk. Even upside-down, he can easily see all the sidelong glances and half-frowns people are giving him.  
  
“Don't we always?” He'd bet money on the fact that Jared's grinning at the people who give him funny looks. Waving, even, because Jared is the biggest dork on the planet.  
  
“Um,” Jensen says, and then Jared starts forwards again and he's saved from having to answer, thanks to the way his jaw clicks shut against Jared's back.  
  
When they get to Tim Hortons, Jared sets him down carefully. “You owe me,” he says, his mouth in a lopsided smile.  
  
Jensen's starting to wonder if he woke up in the wrong _universe_ today, because Jared's being nervous and hopeful and tender in flashes that are almostnotquite too quick for Jensen to even notice.  
  
Jared is defined in Jensen's mind as being slow and open, as easy to read as Baby's First Book. This new Jared—the one with expressions Jensen can't even _read_ —is almost too weird to deal with.  
  
“So,” Jared says after they've ordered. He leans up against the counter. “Why did Chad drop the weight, anyway?”  
  
Jensen shrugs. “We were...talking.” _About how I fucked you. How I liked it, and I want to do it again._  
  
“About?”  
  
_Me being in love with you._ “Sophia,” Jensen lies. “He got pissed, wasn't paying attention.”  
  
“I'd offer to beat him up, but you're the one with the cane.” Jared leans back, propping his head up with his hands and grinning.  
  
Jensen shakes his head. “I worry about you sometimes,” he says conversationally. “Eric'll be even madder if you finally go off the deep end and start babbling gibberish all the time, you know.”  
  
“Hah, hah,” Jared says sarcastically.  
  
They stand in silence for a few minutes, Jensen twirling a straw in his fingers and Jared staring at the ceiling.  
  
Jensen looks up to ask Jared about an upcoming scene—only to see Jared bent double over the counter, his back arched, chest stretching. “Dude, what the fuck.”  
  
“The world's upside-down. Hunh,” Jared says.  
  
“You're a complete moron,” Jensen says.  
  
“It _is!_ ”  
  
“But not everyone feels the need to remark upon that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I think it's kinda funny.”  
  
“You're _insane,_ ” Jensen says severely. “Our new plot is going to be Sam in a mental institution.”  
  
“While Dean hobbles around, a useless old man with a cane.” Jared smirks.  
  
Jensen can't resist: he reaches out and pushes Jared hard, making him stumble. “Fucker.”  
  
“Ow! Oh, help!” Jared mock-limps. “I'm too old and weak to walk right!”  
  
“I'm sure Tom'd help me kill you if I asked nice enough,” Jensen says ominously.  
  
“ _Tom?_ He's dumber'n a sack of hammers and twice as useless.”  
  
“Libel! Slander! Now I can sue you.”  
  
“Good luck with that, Gimpy.”  
  
“Oh, you've done it now. I'm gonna get _Mike_ to help plot your destruction, now.”  
  
“Aww, baby, I'm flattered that you care so much.” Jared flutters his eyelashes.  
  
Jensen blinks, because the look on Jared's face has Jensen's entire body rising to attention—and that makes him suddenly realize exactly where they are.  
  
Everyone in the restaurant, from the old couple in the corner to the kid in the high chair to the pimply employee behind the counter, is staring at them.  
  
“Um,” he says, and smiles in the little kid's general direction.  
  
The kid giggles, and that seems to break the spell. People glance away or start eating again. Jensen sees one young guy in a booth whisper in a girl's ear. She breaks away, eyes widening, and glances over at Jensen and Jared; when she looks back at her friend, she's shaking her head. “No way”, she mouths.  
  
Hunh. Weird.  
  
“Is our food ready yet?” he asks Zits.  
  
The kid shakes his head. “Uh. Gotta finish slicing the roast beef,” he says.  
  
“It's okay, we can wait.” Jared flashes The Smile that Ate Alaska and Came Back To Finish Off Texas for Dessert. The kid nods and ducks into the back of the store.  
  
“One of these days you're gonna get yourself a stalker,” Jensen hears himself say.  
  
“Hunh? Why?”  
  
“Your fuck-me smile, idiot.”  
  
“My _what?_ ”  
  
Jared looks honestly surprised. Well, good; that makes two of them. Jensen's getting kind of annoyed with his mouth, which seems to be running without the slightest amount of direction from Jensen himself. “Uh. I didn't say anything.”  
  
“You did so. You said I had a fuck-me mouth.”  
  
“Um.”  
  
Now Jared's smile is downright crafty. “You _did!_ I am never going to let you forget this, man.”  
  
“Won't that be fun,” Jensen says sarcastically.  
  
Their food is finally shoved at them. Before Jensen has a chance to grab his tray, Jared does it for him. Jensen scowls, hobbling after Jared to their usual table, a for-two next to the restaurant's biggest window. “I can carry my own shit, y'know.”  
  
“Whatever. You're an invalid.”  
  
Jensen sets the cane down and sits carefully. “One of these days, man.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Jared opens up his sandwich and sits back, stretching his legs out until—  
  
Oh, for crying out _loud._  
  
Jared's making near-inaudible, contented noises as he strokes Jensen's foot with his own. “I love Hortons,” he says happily, for all the world like he's not trying to play footsie with Jensen. “Something about the ambiance.”  
  
“Cheap Canadian food? Starbucks for moose...es?”  
  
“Funny.” Now Jared's foot is tracing circles on Jensen's calf, and Jensen's dick is _definitely_ not objecting. Jensen very carefully doesn't contemplate murder. Or suicide. “No, I just. Dunno. I like it.”  
  
“That's real deep, Jay,” Jensen says sarcastically, picking up his sandwich.  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Jared tilts his head back and downs half his coffee. “Mmm,” he says, throat working.  
  
Jensen closes his eyes shut, fighting to get his body under control.  
  
This really isn't getting easier.  
  
||  
  
Jensen's mama told him once that it doesn't matter how hot you turn the heat on water, because up 'till the water's boiling, that's where all the heat'll go. It's only after the water reaches a boil that you gotta worry about scorching the pan.  
  
That's got nothing to do with the price of peas in Peoria, except that every day this keeps on, Jensen feels closer and closer to reaching boiling point.  
  
Because Jared's not just a great lay. Hell, Jensen knew that when he fucked him; it was his own stupidity that got him in this mess. He _loves_ Jared, and not just in the “hi, I want to have a schmoopy commitment ceremony with you and spend the rest of our lives together” kind of way. He loves him as a brother, as a friend. Hell, he loves Jared like a really important body part—a hand or a foot.  
  
Jay's not his world, but every bit of his world does have something, however small, to do with the guy, and that's. Terrifying, if Jensen's being completely honest with himself.  
  
Especially since Jensen knows he occupies such a peripheral part of Jared's life. Jared's got friends, family, and entire sphere of living that Jensen's never touched. He doesn't talk about it, but Jensen's more than aware that it exists, and that he's not a part of it. Pathetic, yeah, but no more than the rest of this shit.  
  
It takes a month for Jared to realize that something's really wrong.  
  
Jensen's limping back towards his trailer—he can go without the cane, now, but walking isn't exactly comfortable—when he hears Jared calling him.  
  
“Jen! Hey, Jensen, hang on a second!”  
  
Jared catches up easily, slinging an arm around Jensen's shoulders.  
  
“Yeah?” Jensen asks, shrugging the arm off out of habit, not wanting to reveal anything that he...shouldn't.  
  
“There's a ball game on tonight. Wanna come over to my place, check it out?”  
  
It sounds like a recipe for disaster. Jensen nods. “Yeah, sure. Seven?”  
  
“It's a date.”  
  
And there's that _smile_ , the seductive “I'd like to sleep with you” smile that Jensen's seen way too many times lately.  
  
He ignores it, glancing to the side. “I'll see you then,” he says, and starts limping away again.  
  
“Hang on a sec.” Jared's hand darts out, squeezes his shoulder. Jensen fights not to tense up.  
  
“We're okay, right?”  
  
Jared's worried eyes, searching his own. They won't find what they're looking for, but still, Jensen looks away. “Yeah,” he lies. “We're good.”  
  
“I just. After—um. I'm not sure if we're...”  
  
“Jared, seriously, it's fine. We didn't do anything both of us haven't done a million times before.”  
  
For a second there's that weird _stillness_ , like someone's gone and turned Jared into a statue. Then Jared's nodding. “Yeah. Um, that's right. Nothing we haven't...yeah.”  
  
“See you at seven, then.”  
  
This time, when Jensen hobbles away, Jared doesn't try to stop him.  
  
||  
  
“Hey, Jay.”  
  
“Jensen!” Jared bounces up and down. “Come on in. Popcorn's in the microwave, I'm fixin' to turn the TV on. Make yourself at home.”  
  
Jensen blinks and steps across the threshold. Neurotic hospitality, that's new. “Got any Cheetos?” he asks, heading towards the couch.  
  
Jared's head pops up from behind the kitchen counter. “Yeah, under the table,” he says. “New bag.” His foofy hair disappears again.  
  
Jensen leans down, wincing at the slight pressure it puts on his foot, and snags the bag. “Thanks, man,” he says, tearing it open.  
  
“No problem. Want a drink?” The microwave beeps; Jensen hears the clanking of dishes and then the hollow plastic _thunk_ of Jared pulling the microwave open too hard.  
  
“Beer?”  
  
“Can do.”  
  
And then Jared's _bustling_ over to the couch, like some kind of demented housewife, bowl of popcorn in one hand and two cold beers in the other. He tosses one to Jensen, sets the bowl on the coffee table, and sits in the La-Z-Boy next to the couch, about ten feet away from Jensen.  
  
There's stupid, and then there's _stupid._ Jared's definitely being the second one. “Aw, come on,” Jensen says. “Don't be a moron.”  
  
Jared clicks the TV on. “Huh?” he asks, face just a little too blank. “What're you talking about?”  
  
“You don't have to sit all the way over there,” Jensen says grouchily. “Get your ass onto the couch.” Maybe his awkwardness is communicating itself to Jared—or maybe Jared's finally got an inkling of the fact that Jensen's got a slight case of head over heels. Whatever the cause, his stand-offishness is making Jensen want to shoot shit.  
  
“I'm fine over here,” Jared says quickly. “Really.”  
  
Jensen seriously doesn't need this whole stupid relationship thing to be even weirder. “Yeah, well, I'm not fine with you being over there. C'mon, Jay, it's not like I'm diseased.”  
  
Jared grimaces. “Oh, _fine_ ,” he says sulkily, standing up. “Control freak.”  
  
“Damn straight.” Jensen watches, annoyance rising, as Jared settles on the far end of the couch. Jesus, things really are going to be fucked-up between them. “So, who's playing?”  
  
“Steelers and the 'skins. Oughta be good.”  
  
Jensen snorts. “Neither of them is worth shit, man.”  
  
“Okay, true,” Jared admits. “I just. I kind of miss having you around, man.”  
  
Hunh. He hadn't expected that. Jensen feels himself blinking in bemusement. “Um. Thanks, I guess.”  
  
Jared's laugh is harsh and cut off quickly. “You're welcome.”  
  
On the screen, a Steeler is dogpiled by two 'skins. Jensen snickers. “Sucks to be him.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
The non-answer is beyond unusual, so Jensen glances over—and sees Jared staring fixedly at him.  
  
“Jay, what—“  
  
He's cut off by Jared practically leaping across the couch, straddling his lap and—ohgod—cupping his head, moving in for a kiss.  
  
“Should've let me stay in the chair,” Jared mutters, right before smashing their lips together.  
  
Oh, God. Jensen's hands come up to grab fistfuls of Jared's shirt, pulling him closer so that Jensen can kiss him harder, faster. They're both sucking face like drowning men, like they've been starving for the past, Jesus, entire _month,_ and Jensen thinks wildly that maybe they sort of have.  
  
“Fuck, Jensen—come in here wearin' _that_ and you expect me to stay away—“ And now Jared's running his hands over every inch of Jensen's body that he can reach, and Jensen's kissing Jared's neck and feeling sort of confused, because. Okay, yeah, his jeans are kind of tight, and his black shirt is worn and a few sizes to small, but he hadn't dressed with the aim of getting molested.  
  
Or. Not deliberately, at any rate.  
  
But it's irrelevant, because whether or not he'd subconsciously planned this, Jared's rising to the bait perfectly. His hands are everywhere, sliding down the back of Jensen's jeans, running up and down his spine, clutching his arms, as Jared nips his cheekbones, his neck, his ear.  
  
“Can't stop,” Jared mutters. “I oughta be able to—but I can't. Wanted...God. Wanted this.”  
  
It's like being poked by a cattle prod, because Jared. Jared _wanted_ , and that's—beyond anything Jensen let himself think about, actually. The idea that Jared even thought about this. “Oh. I.”  
  
Jared's eyes meet his, searchingly. Jensen feels himself shudder and close his eyes; the naked want, the burning curiosity, in Jared's look is too much for him to deal with. Not when he knows what he'd be communicating if he really lets Jared see.  
  
But apparently Jared's just as psychic as Sam, or something, because Jared groans.  
  
“You want it too,” he says, and it's not a question, but Jensen finds himself nodding.  
  
“Always,” he says, and it feels like stripping naked and laying himself out for Jared's inspection. It feels _vulnerable,_ and Jensen hates it even as Jared presses him down onto the couch and kisses him, one wet open-mouthed peck after another.  
  
“Thought you didn't,” Jared says between kisses. “Thought...lotta stuff. Stupid stuff. Figured you didn't like me, didn't want—oh God please don't stop—to be serious.”  
  
Jared thought that _Jensen_ didn't want to be serious? Oh, God, that's just too good. Jensen chokes back a laugh and squeezes Jared's ass again. “Thought you didn't do serious,” he says, tangling his fingers in Jared's hair and holding Jared's head still so that he can kiss him, long and slow and hard.   
  
“I don't,” Jared says, sounding completely befuddled. Jensen fights to ignore the way his stomach sinks. “Or. I don't, usually. But Jen...I want to try.”  
  
There's naked hope in Jared's eyes now, and even though every ounce of common sense Jensen's got is jumping up and down and waving neon signs in protest, he could kick a newborn puppy easier than turn Jared down right now.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, me too.”  
  
And then their legs are tangling together and they're pushing each other, wrestling for the top position on the wide, worn couch. Jensen feels the press of Jared's body, all long and lean and hard muscle, beneath him, and his stomach gives a twist of regret. He's wanted this long enough that to have it, finally, is almost painful.  
  
“I want,” Jared says, but cuts himself off with a gasp when Jensen shoves his leg between Jared's thighs.  
  
Jensen raises an eyebrow. “You want?”  
  
“Fucker,” Jared says, but he's smiling. “I want you to fuck me. Here.”  
  
“ _Here?_ ” The couch is wide, but he's not sure it's wide enough for...oh, fuck. Jensen drops his forehead to Jared's and moans, grinding his hips in a circle.  
  
“Um. Bed's a-ways off,” Jared says.  
  
“Floor?”  
  
“That'll do.” Jared grabs them and rolls them till they crash to the floor, barely missing the coffee table. It's a tight space and Jensen's just waiting for his foot to be wrenched, but Jared's pulling Jensen's ass closer, grinding their dicks together, and Jensen discovers that he _really_ doesn't care.  
  
“Lube,” he gasps, fingers tugging at Jared's shirt.  
  
“Don't have any,” Jared says. “Uh. Spit?”  
  
It's not ideal, but Jared's pretty far from being a too-tight virgin, so Jensen smirks and slides down Jared's body. “That'll do,” he says, and flicks Jared's fly open.  
  
“Shit.” Jared's eyes flutter shut and his entire body ripples, pushing against Jensen. “I meant you—Oh, God, Jensen.”  
  
Jensen yanks down Jared's pants far enough so that he can wrap his hand around Jared's dick and tug it out. Jared's head rolls back against the carpet and he moans long and loud.  
  
“C'mon, hurry up,” Jared urges in a low voice. “Can't—wanted you to suck me for so fuckin' long.”  
  
The knowledge makes Jensen groan. He moves down, legs parting in an undignified sprawl, as he wraps a hand around the base of Jared's dick and licks one long, slow stroke up the shaft.  
  
“OhGodChristfuckyeah,” Jared says on a break, his hips jerking. “Harder, Jen, God, suck it, please.”  
  
He should've known Jared would be the mouthy type. Jensen's more than happy to oblige, though, opening his mouth and sucking the head of Jared's cock in. Every movement he makes gives him a jerk or a gasp from Jared, and that's. Way, _way_ hotter than it should be, and now Jensen's grinding down on Jared's leg, humping it while he runs his tongue along the slit of Jared's cock and then swallows Jared down.  
  
“Jen—oh, fuck, so good at this—” And there's a hand on his head now, cupping and massaging, as Jared's legs curl around him. Jensen moans deep in his throat and swallows, muscles working around Jared.  
  
“Yeah, c'mon, just a little more,” Jared breathes. “God, Jensen, love your mouth so much, wanna—oh. _Oh._ ”  
  
Jensen grins around Jared's cock and does it again, tongue fluttering over the head of Jared's dick while his hand twists up and down. He's got a rhythm now, a good one, alternating between teasing and swallowing Jared down, reveling in the way Jared's cock stretches his lips, committing to memory Jared's breathy praise and fractured pleas.  
  
“How—“ he says, and then Jensen licks him, a hard, uncompromising swipe of his tongue, while he slips one blunt finger inside Jared's ass.  
  
For a second Jared is absolutely still. Jensen looks up just in time to see his entire expression crumble as his body jerks.  
  
“ _Jensen,_ ” he says, and he's coming, spurting into Jensen's hand as his entire body trembles, full-body shakes that have Jensen shuddering in response, his own body screaming at him to get inside something right fucking _now._  
  
When Jared finally relaxes bonelessly, Jensen pulls his hand away. It's slick, both with Jensen's spit and Jared's come, and as Jared props himself up on his elbows, Jensen wraps the sticky hand around his own dick.  
  
“Oh, shit,” Jared says. “How the fuck did you—God, Jensen.”  
  
It sounds almost reverent, and this time it's not just Jensen's dick that jumps. “Lie back,” he orders quietly, voice shaking a bit; and Jared, wide-eyed, does.  
  
One finger again, then two, then three, and Jared moans and flexes around them. It sets Jensen's teeth on edge because no, Jared's not a virgin; he's really fucking _experienced_ , which means that everything he does is pretty much flawless.  
  
“Been waiting for this,” Jared says breathlessly. “Since that first day. God, Jensen, near on two _years._ ”  
  
And for some reason it makes him wince—because yeah, Jensen's wanted this too, but not the same way Jared had. For Jensen, wanting is about hiding and repressing and fighting to forget, and the sinking feeling of doom when he completely fails.  
  
“So,” Jared says, pulling Jensen down for a wet, messy kiss. “You gonna fuck me or what?”  
  
“Shut up,” Jensen says, and slips a hand into the pocket of Jared's jeans, lying crumpled on the floor.  
  
The condom is out and on in what feels like both the blink of an eye and half a century, and then Jared's bracing himself against the floor as Jensen grips his hips and _pushes._  
  
“Wow,” Jared breathes. “I,” and Jensen claps a hand over his mouth. He's feeling and seeing too fucking _much_ to also deal with Jared being...Jared.  
  
Except Jared's moaning into Jensen's hand, arching up beneath him and pushing, and Jensen realizes with a feeling that's like a two-by-four to his stomach that Jared _likes_ this. Loves it, and now he's remembering the handcuffs, and.   
  
“Jared. _Jared,_ ” he says, removing his hand so he can brace himself on the floor and push, again and again, shoving Jared back against the floor. Jared's hands are everywhere—smacking the couch, running up and down Jensen's back, cupping Jensen's head.  
  
“C'mon, harder,” Jared says, his voice rough. Jensen grits his teeth and obeys, angling his hips so that—  
  
He feels Jared shaking beneath him. “Again,” Jared says, and Jensen obeys.   
  
“Oh God. Ohgodfucksofucking _good_ ,” Jared's hand moving to jerk himself off, Jared's throat working, Jared's head thrown back, teeth clenched, JaredJaredJared—  
  
Who comes in spurts that splash Jensen's chest as he _convulses_ around Jensen's dick, and then it's game over, three strikes, the fat lady singing.  
  
“Jensen,” Jared breathes, quiet wonder in his voice.  
  
“Um,” Jensen says, unable to even be embarrassed about collapsing on Jared's chest.  
  
“You never—“  
  
“You weren't supposed to know.” Jensen puts two hands on the floor and pushes himself up.  
  
Instantly arms close around him. “Nu-uh,” Jared says. “You're staying right here till I figure it out.”  
  
Figure _what_ out, Jensen wants to say, but it won't do any good, so he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
Jared's lips are working silently and there's a deep furrow in his brow like he's unraveling all the secrets of the universe. “You've wanted me,” he says finally. “For—for a long time. Right?”  
  
Jensen closes his eyes and nods.  
  
“I mean, you _wanted_ me. You—“ And Jared sucks in a breath. “No. You didn't. Did you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You love me.”  
  
And then Jensen's up and out and running, for all the world like a heroine in those books his sister used to read.  
  
||  
  
 


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**  
  
||  
  
Jared occasionally, when he bothers to think about these things, thinks that maybe God just forgot to put in his common sense.  
  
Because it's not like he didn't suspect. He knew something was up other than “whoops, I had sex with my co-star”. Because not only did Mike and Justin visit and make vaguely terrifying threats about Jared not having a good effect on Jen's mental health, but Chris also showed up to have a beer and smile scarily. Even Chad called to talk about it.  
  
So, yeah, he knew something was up. But it wasn't until seeing Jensen's face just now—seeing how open he was, how scared and somehow _small_ the guy was, lying there after fucking Jared silly—that he knew what, exactly, it was.  
  
And it feels like someone's blown up a balloon in his belly and then popped it, because he was just starting to understand, and that was good. Better than good. Really freaking _excellent_.  
  
But then Jensen had run off, and now Jared's left feeling seriously freaking depressed, because Jensen might care about him, but apparently he doesn't want to hear Jared's “I love you too”. And that brings him right back to the part where he should've had enough common sense not to just blurt the L-word at Jensen because God, almost two years—has it really been the whole time? Chris said it has—is a long time to repress.  
  
It takes Jared a full two minutes to realize that he should probably go after Jensen.  
  
“Shit,” he says, and yanks his pants on.  
  
||  
  
Jensen's not at his apartment. He's not on set, he's not at Mike's or Tom's place, and he's not in any of the bars Jared checks.  
  
He's not _anywhere_ , and Jared's starting to panic. What if Jensen went out and got drunk and decided to kill himself in an alcohol-induced haze of depression? Because Jensen drunk would totally do something that stupid, and Jared knows it.  
  
It isn't until he's been searching for a solid two hours that he checks his cell phone.  
  
Jensen texted him more than an hour ago. The message says only: “Don't try to find me.”  
  
And Jared would love to say “Like hell” grimly and heroically and then go find Jensen, except that he's run out of places to look, and he's dead fucking tired.  
  
“Damn it,” he says, resting his head against the door to Jensen's apartment. “Fucking _damn it._ ”  
  
“Language, young man!” Jensen's old neighbor scolds, opening up her own door and shutting it firmly behind her.  
  
“Yeah, Jay,” says an amused voice. “What if there were children around?”  
  
Jared whips his head to the side—and there at the top of the stairs is Jensen, hands in his pockets, smirking. He looks for all the world like everything's fine and dandy.  
  
Oh no, he fucking _does not_.  
  
“Jensen,” Jared says, deliberately relaxing, making himself look as cheerful as he can.  
  
“Hey there, Jay. What're you doing at my apartment?” Jensen's smirk gets...smirkier. Bastard. “Back for round two?”  
  
Jared shrugs. “Nah. But you told me a week ago that it was my turn to have Bear.” They aren't exactly creative when it comes to names.  
  
Jensen's smartass expression falters, his eyes opening wide. It takes a real effort for Jared to remember that shoving him against the stair railing and fucking him blind won't, actually, fix anything.  
  
“So here's the thing,” he says finally, because if there's one thing Jared's good at, it's running his mouth, and he's tired of doing this Jensen's way with the subtle looks and the never saying what you _mean_. “I think I kind of scared you, because you're a giant chicken—er. Wait. I didn't mean that. I mean, I'm a chicken too, it's the second season and I haven't even _slept_ with you yet—not that I sleep with all my costars! But um. Some of them. What I mean is that I wanted to sleep with you but I didn't because you're funny and kind of nicer than you want people to think, and also you let me talk at you and, uh, I think the point of this is that I'm kind of in love with you. Maybe.”  
  
Jensen blinks.  
  
“Um,” Jared says.  
  
And then the applause starts. One slow clap, then two, and Jared could've sworn they're not in a movie, but there's swelling music—Lindsay Lohan, what the _fuck?_ —and slow clapping and oh, hey, that's Mike and Justin. Jared relaxes, because it all makes sense now.  
  
Even if his face feels like it's on fire.  
  
And Jensen still hasn't said anything. Which is actually really, really bad.  
  
“Jen?”  
  
“Mike, Tom, Justin.” A long pause. “Kristen. Get out.”  
  
“It's a _hallway,_ ” Kristen points out.  
  
“Yeah, and I'm sorting out massive personal issues,” Jensen says. If Jared said something like that it'd sound doofy, but Jensen just sounds kind of scary.  
  
“Right, then.” The Lohan music is cut off, and Mike emerges from around the corner of the hallway, clutching a bright pink Barbie stereo. “Try not to traumatize the neighbors too much,” he says with a wolfish type of grin.  
  
Somehow, Jared doesn't think that'll be happening.  
  
Tom gives him a sympathetic smile; Kristen punches him on the shoulder. “Hang in there, tiger.”  
  
Justin just smirks. Jared's starting to wonder if the guy, like, wears a _mask_ all the time, or something.  
  
So they're alone in the hall, and there's a couple minutes of really awkward standing around and looking stupid—in Jared's case, at least. And Jared's convinced that he'll say something even weirder than what he said before, so he just keeps his mouth clamped just, and Jensen seems to think the hallway's paisley wallpaper is the best thing ever, so he's not talking.  
  
Awkward silences kind of suck. Jared's about to just run and hide in Jensen's apartment—it's not technically breaking in if Jensen's standing right there, is it?—but he opens his mouth to breathe and Stupid comes out.  
  
“So, wanna go bowling?”  
  
Jensen does that thing where his eyebrow raises and none of the rest of his face moves. Jared knows Jen probably thinks he's making a normal human expression, but that just makes it even more frustrating when Jared can't read it. “Bowling.”  
  
“Yeah, you know, with balls—“ oops, not funny “—and pins and funny shoes and. Stuff.” Jared stops himself before he can dig his hole any deeper, all but holding his breath.  
  
Then Jensen smiles. It's nothing major, just a little close-lipped quirk of the lips, but it's a hell of a lot more than Jared's been able to get out of him lately. “Sure,” he says.  
  
“Great. Uh. I guess you're driving.”  
  
“Mhm,” Jensen says, and turns around to leave.  
  
This is weird, and stupid, and _weird_ , having all so much distance between them that Jensen's doing everything short of running off to stay away. And Jared's sure as hell not gonna put up with it.  
  
“Hang on a sec,” he says, running over to the stairs. “You're gonna hurt your foot again, all that stair-climbing.”  
  
“And?” Still completely unreadable. Damn it.  
  
“Elevator,” Jared says quickly. “We'll take the elevator.”  
  
And then before Jensen has a chance to refuse or do some ninja-karate on him, Jared grabs Jensen's hand and _yanks_ him over to the elevator.  
  
It opens right away, which Jared views as more proof that someone up there really, really likes him.  
  
Jensen shakes Jared's hand off as soon as the elevator doors ping shut. Jared tries to hid the almost-pout that he knows is on his face, but he's always sort of sucked at the whole emotion-hiding thing, unless Eric's yelling at him and threatening to beat him to death with a prop.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, pushing the “G” and trying not to think too hard.  
  
Jensen grimaces, and Jared braces himself for—something. God, he can't _stand_ how awkward they are.  
  
The elevator shakes as it starts to descend. Jared's getting ready to bang his head against the wall a few hundred times when Jensen says, “I.”  
  
Jared looks over; Jen's swallowing hard. “You?” he prompts.  
  
Jensen laughs, a short, pained bark. “Jay, I. Shit.” The hand Jared spends a lot of time grabbing curls into a fist.  
  
“I'm a moron,” he says finally.  
  
Jared doesn't know how to answer that.  
  
“And...fuck. I'm just trying to process stuff, alright?”  
  
What Jensen means by that, Jared knows, is that he's freaking out and covering up for it by being all bitchy.  
  
“Okay,” he says, making an effort to look at least a little normal. “'s no big deal, Jen.”  
  
Jensen's mouth twists wryly, like he knows the truth, but he just bobs his head in a nod.  
  
They catch a taxi to the bowling alley, mostly because Jared doesn't think either of them could manage driving right now. One of them could sit up front—the driver offers, since they're both “so fuckin'—er, sorry 'bout that—tall”, but Jared declines, and Jensen just slips in next to him without a word.  
  
So he's kind of glancing at Jensen when he thinks Jensen won't notice, and he strongly suspects Jensen's doing the same thing to him. It's only a few miles to the bowling alley, but it feels like a hell of a lot longer.  
  
“Can't believe how weird Canadian bowling alleys are,” Jensen says finally.  
  
Jared can't stop himself from smiling, because hey, Jen's _talking_ to him. Willingly, even. “We didn't have any, where I grew up,” he says.  
  
“Dude, what the hell kind of town doesn't have a bowling alley?”  
  
Jared shrugs. “We lived out on a farm, a-ways from town. It wasn't worth it to drive all the way in just to roll a ball at some pins.”  
  
“Well, we had one just down the block—huge old thing. Bikers used to come in and make bets with each other, start fights sometimes.  
  
“Sounds uncivilized,” Jared says carefully. He wants to say something about Jensen's love for balls, but...they're not like that, not anymore. Or not right now, at any rate.  
  
Jensen’s grin is crooked. “Nah, man, it was fun. Lost my—“  
  
And he clamps his mouth shut.  
  
But Jared’s not stupid; he knows exactly what Jensen was going to say. “You lost your virginity at a _bowling alley?_ ” he asks, incapable of keeping the glee out of his voice. “A bowling alley. Jensen Ackles lost it in a place where the whole point of the game is fondling a ball?”  
  
“Shut. Up.”  
  
But Jensen’s got the Look on his face, the I-Will-Humor-My-Costar-For-He-Is-Pathetic-When-He’s-Sad look that Jared knows exactly how to take advantage of. “I can’t believe it,” he says gleefully. “You fucked a girl in a Dallas bowling alley. Your _first_ girl.”  
  
“Actually,” Jensen said, sounding about as humiliated as he would’ve if Jared had somehow managed to strap him naked to the Impala.  
  
…not that that’s a bad idea, or anything.  
  
“Actually, what?” he prompts. Jen’s face is—wow. Really red, like it’s about to burst into flames.  
  
“It was a guy,” Jensen says.  
  
Jared laughs the whole rest of the way to the bowling alley.  
  
||  
  
Okay, Jensen thinks. They’re making progress. Sort of.  
  
Jared’s spent the past twenty minutes making fun of him—“Guess you really do have a thing for balls, huh?”—which is par for the course. Jensen himself hasn’t done anything really stupid like, say, puking all over Jared because it feels like his dad’s old hunting dogs are jumping around in his stomach.  
  
They’re acting…almost normal. And, yeah, it’s a relief. But it’s also making Jensen nervous, because it means that Jared’s able to just _forget_ the whole huge supposedly important proclamation of love, which when you get right down to it kind of sucks.  
  
But whatever. He’s regaling Jared with tales of Texan bowling debauchery—the slicked-up lanes can be real fun, if you know how to use them—when they tumble out of the car, Jared helping Jensen since his foot’s still not all the way healed, and Jared’s laughing that huge bellow that lets the whole world know he’s having fun.  
  
They go into the alley and rent shoes and—Jensen winces—balls; the bowling alley is extremely urban and Canadian, with tasteful lighting and a bunch of families.  
  
Jared picks his ball up and sticks his nose on it, looking down it and towards the lane like a sharpshooter about to take down a duck.  
  
“Ten bucks and a blowjob says I kick your ass,” he says.  
  
As if he needs more proof that he’s stupidly hung up on his best friend, his stomach flips. It’s no big deal, really; hell, Mike and Tom make bets like that all the time.  
  
…Oh God. Bad thought.  
  
“Ten bucks,” Jensen says slowly. “You can keep the blowjob.” _For the next person who looks at you sideways,_ he thinks. He’s pretty much certain, now, that Jared’s announcement didn’t mean jack.   
  
Jared gets a funny pinched look on his face, and for a second Jensen has doubts—but then Jared’s grinning again. “Deal,” he says, clapping Jensen on the back.  
  
He swings his arm back, looking way too practiced for someone who claims to never’ve gone as a kid. Jensen watches in horrified fascination as Jared’s arm muscles bulge and he throws the ball forwards.  
  
It crashes down on the runway, rolling faster than should be humanly possible towards the pins. It hits them with an almighty crash, knocking every single one down.  
  
“Woo!” Jared yells, throwing his arms up in the air and cavorting around, much to the disapproval of the league of Granny bowlers three lanes down. “Beat that, Jenny!”  
  
Jensen scowls, picks up his ball, and hurls it down the runway.  
  
It makes it almost three feet before rolling into the gutter.  
  
They watch as it goes all the way down, disappearing in the back. Jensen sighs when the ball thuds back into the carrier, picks it up, and does the exact same thing. Jared’s staring at him with what can only be described as horrified fascination.  
  
“Well, I didn’t usually bowl when I went to the alley,” Jensen says defensively.  
  
Jared busts out laughing at that, bending over and slapping his knee in obvious glee. Jensen glares and wonders just how much damage a bowling ball can do to _Jared’s_ balls.  
  
Probably not enough.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Jared says, straightening back up and wiping tears from his eyes. “I just—you’re kind of insane, you know.”  
  
Jensen feels, vaguely, that he should be insulted, since he’s talking to a guy whose idea of seduction involves handcuffs and Build-A-Bear, but before he has a chance to mention any of that, Jared’s saying, “but I can teach you how to bowl. It’s not hard.”  
  
Jensen blinks. “What?”  
  
“Bowling,” Jared repeats patiently. “I can help you.”  
  
Jared coaching him, guiding his hands and adjusting his stance. Jensen winces inwardly. “Think I’ll stick with the gutter. Thanks, though.”  
  
Jared rolls his eyes pissily and tosses the ball, not even bothering to look at the lane.  
  
Another strike.  
  
“On second thought,” Jensen says slowly, “maybe you could help me out. A little.”  
  
And then Jared’s smiling again. Jensen sort of wishes he could tell him not to, but what’s he going to say? ‘Sorry, I know you think even grasshoppers are the funnies things ever, but every time you smile I want to jump you, which is inconvenient since I want to cohabitate with you until the end of our days and you just want to have sex a lot’? Better to just leave it alone.  
  
“Alright, then!” Jared bounces on the balls of his heels. “Pick up the ball.  
  
Misgivings like sludge in his gut, Jensen obeys.  
  
Jared immediately shakes his head. “No, you’re holding it wrong. Your thumb needs to be crooked, and you oughta make your wrist stiffer—it really is all in the wrist.”  
  
Jensen, feeling more than a little bewildered, attempts to straighten his wrist, crooking his thumb in the narrow hole. It doesn’t work as well as it ought to, though, because his hands are sweaty and pretty much every muscle in his body feels like a limp noodle.  
  
There’s an impatient huff of breath and then Jared’s towering over him, one huge hand pinching Jensen’s wrist. He stiffens reflexively—and Jared’s wiggling a finger between his thumb and the bowling ball, forcing his joint to bend just this side of awkwardly.  
  
“Better,” Jared says. “Now brace yourself on both feet. You wanna push up against the ground when you throw the ball. No—“  
  
And then Jared’s _right there,_ kneeling down and sliding his hand up Jensen’s calf, tugging him gently until his feet are grounded in what Jensen guesses is the proper bowling position, or whatever. He’s not thinking of the game much anymore, focusing instead on the way Jared’s hands linger on his legs and the soft smile Jared’s wearing and how he’s probably going to fall over any minute now.  
  
Just when his breathing starts to get too heavy, Jared steps back.   
  
“Now try it,” he says.  
  
Jensen pulls his arm back, feeling the weight of the ball tugging on him—but when he swings forward and lets go, the ball flies straight.  
  
This time it goes into a gutter ten feet away from the start of the lane.  
  
“Better,” Jared says encouragingly.  
  
Jensen’s mouth twists wryly, and he picks his ball back up. “Maybe this time I’ll actually hit a pin,” he jokes, and draws back.  
  
“Hang on a sec.” And then Jared moves in again, only this time he’s wrapping an arm around Jensen’s waist and fitting his hand over Jensen’s own on the ball.  
  
Jensen makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. He’s not sure if it makes it better or worse that Jared ignores it.  
  
Jared’s groin is pressed against Jensen’s ass, a potent reminder of things Jensen’s honestly trying to forget, or at least repress for as long as he’s around Jared.   
  
When Jared speaks, his mouth brushes against Jensen’s ear. “Don’t force it,” he says quietly. “I’ll happen. You just gotta stop thinking and let yourself move.”  
  
He’s fairly certain they’re not talking about bowling anymore.  
  
Jensen commits Stupid Action #993, gulping and nodding and not moving away. He feels Jared smile against his hair, stroking a thumb over the back of Jensen’s hand.  
  
“Good,” Jared says. “Now, rock back and then push forwards, letting the ball go.”  
  
His voice is hypnotic—not the usual bouncy Jared tone, but a lower, more even one. Sam’s voice, or a teacher’s.  
  
Jensen’s hard enough that he almost thinks he could poke a fourth hole in the bowling ball.  
  
He tries to obey, but when he pulls his arm back he somehow manages to trip over his own feet, so instead of getting a strike he falls back against Jared.  
  
Jared catches him easily, laughing. “Jen, you’re such a _girl,_ ” he says gleefully.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Jensen growls, pushing himself upright.  
  
Jared blinks, and it’s like shutters have fallen over his eyes. “Um,” he says. “Sorry. I forgot, I guess.”  
  
Forgot what, Jensen doesn’t ask, because he knows damn good and well what Jared’s talking about.  
  
“Yeah, well, don’t,” he says grouchily, and throws the ball.  
  
He knocks down three pins.   
  
“Woooo!” Jared grabs him, all but picking him up, and claps him on the back. “You did it!”  
  
Jensen forces himself to scowl, wiggling out of the embrace. “Yeah, well,” he says. “You’re still winning.”  
  
“You better believe it,” Jared says smugly, and Jensen gets the distinct impression that he hasn’t forgotten a word of the proposed bet.  
  
Shit.  
  
Jared tosses the ball nonchalantly again, knocking down every single pin. Jensen rolls his eyes when he does his victory dance—seriously, does the guy have to rub it in so much?  
  
“Feel free,” Jensen says levelly, “to throw yourself in the path of an incoming bowling ball any time.”  
  
Jared just throws an arm around Jensen and gives him a noogie. When his crotch comes into contact with Jared’s thigh, Jensen winces.  
  
He shoves Jared away after a moment of embracing. “You’re gonna give the old ladies heart attacks,” he grumbles, surreptitiously adjusting his pants.  
  
But Jared sees, and Jared smiles. “Having a problem, Jen?”  
  
The chances of Jared believing him are something pretty close to nothing; all the same, Jensen’s considering answering in the negative.  
  
Then Jared steps closer, catching one of Jensen’s hands in his own, staring at him intently.  
  
“You dealt with it yet?” he asks, and skirts his lips across Jensen’s temple.  
  
Jensen would love to be able to answer crossly, say something about how he’s not a fucking _girl_ and Jared needs to back the fuck off, but it feels like Jared’s got a hand around his neck, too, and has squeezed every bit of breath out.  
  
Jensen inhales sharply, feeling choked, and—well.  
  
You can’t call it falling forwards because Jensen’s not a klutz and no one’s tripped him, but he’s still moving in Jared’s direction with distinctly panicked thoughts making a tangled ball in his brain, and Jared’s smiling at him, and by all rights he should be running away—again—instead of stepping closer and wow, maybe Jared’s so huge that he’s finally gotten his own center of gravity, or something, because Jensen _just can’t stop._  
  
Jared’s smile is just this side of crazy, filled with hope and a ton of other things Jensen can’t think about too hard. His hand is gripping Jensen’s shoulder—tight, implacable. He’s seen Jared when he’s determined to get what he wants a few times, usually in pursuit of that disgusting candy he loves so much.  
  
Jensen’s about ninety percent sure this isn’t about candy.  
  
There are plenty of really smart ways to end this weird whatever-it-is and get back to the important thing, namely bowling and repressing. There’s running, hiding, and screaming like a girl, for example.  
  
But Jensen’s tired, and not just in an “oh God, I’ve spent the past three hours fucking and then avoiding my coworker” kind of way. He’s tired of screwing around, tired of shrugging nonchalantly when people ask him about Jared. He’s tired of the knowing looks from Mike, tired of Chris’s silences that mean way more than the nagging Chad subjects him to at least once a week.  
  
So he shakes his head. “Look, I know you wanna fuck me. Make it better, maybe have me as a…boyfriend…for awhile.”  
  
Words don’t have taste, but that one’s like the most bitter peanut butter known to man, sticking his mouth closed and making him want to puke.  
  
“You—you do?” Now the hope in Jared’s look is obvious.  
  
Jensen nods. “And you’ll do anything to get what you want,” he says. “Including stretching the truth a little. Or a lot.”  
  
Befuddled, now. Well, it’s better than mad. “Jensen, what’re you talking about?”  
  
The full name should’ve tipped him off, but Jensen’s not really paying attention to much beyond the need to get the words out. “You don’t really love me, Jay. You’re just sayin’ that. You don’t—not. Not like I do. You can’t.”  
  
One of the reasons people like to keep Jared happy is because when he’s not, it’s like being punched in the face. Jared’s eyes have gone narrow and his mouth is in a thin, hard line, and Jensen’s suddenly remembering that Jared’s kind of a lot taller than he is.  
  
Jensen clenches his jaw, readying himself for some kind of blow.  
  
Then, abruptly, it all falls away. Jared’s body loosens, his mouth turns up in a familiar grin. His eyes widen and he laughs. “Oh, Jen,” he says, entire body shaking with mirth.  
  
“I. What?” Did he miss something?  
  
“Times like these I think you were on _Days of our Lives_ for too long, man.” Jared’s cackling, rocking back and forth on his heels, and now Jensen’s wondering how much trouble he’d get in if he just broke Jared’s stupid nose and blacked his eye and split his lip, because then maybe he’d stop the fucking _laughing._  
  
He’s rolling up his (pink) sleeves and is about to toe off his shoes when an old woman comes up and taps him on the arm.  
  
“Pardon me,” she says politely, “but I couldn’t help noticing that the two of you look like you’re going to break the rules of the bowling alley soon.”  
  
Jensen blinks down at her.  
  
“Well,” she says, her tone still the epitome of reasonable, “either you’re going to kiss him or he’s going to punch you. Or both, or vice versa. But we can’t be having that sort of behavior in a family-oriented bowling alley. Fighting and public displays of affection are strictly prohibited.”  
  
Hurting old ladies, Jensen reminds himself, almost never accomplishes anything.  
  
“Right,” he says, voice tight. “We’ll just go, then.”  
  
He doesn’t grab Jared’s hand because—well, because, but he grabs his wrist, which is close enough. They’ve gotten weirdly used to dragging each other around by various appendages, now that Jensen thinks about it.  
  
“Where’re we going?” Jared asks when they get out onto the sidewalk.  
  
_Home,_ is the first thing Jensen thinks to say, but he’s pretty sure that’s an even worse idea than “The park.”  
  
“Oh…hunh.”  
  
“What?” Jensen asks sharply, remembering just a bit too late to let go of Jared.  
  
Jared’s sidelong look is just sly enough that the words out of his mouth sound evil instead of creepily childish. “Can we go on the merry-go-round?”  
  
And Jensen, because he’s a fucking pathetic pushover, doesn’t say no.  
  
||  
  
The park is big but the merry-go-round is small and old, scratched-up. It isn’t running this late; the sign says it closes at ten, and it’s almost eleven now. But Jared hops up on it anyway, throwing a leg over a dragon.  
  
“We went to San Antonio one time,” he says, voice almost dreamy. “They had a huge merry-go-round, all twinkly lights and pretty horses. I made my parents let me ride it five times.”  
  
Jensen snickers. “Guess I know where you got your love of riding things.”  
  
Jared rolls his eyes. “Hah, hah,” he says sarcastically. “I’m sharing an important childhood memory with you, dumbass. Act sensitive.”  
  
“Sorry, Jay, I think you’re stuck with being the girl in this relationship.”  
  
“No way, you’re way more—hey, wait, what? I thought we were still being all annoyed with each other and shit.”  
  
Jensen scrubs a hand through his hair. “We are.”  
  
“Well—“ Jared’s brain seems to process the words. His mouth twists into a confused little frown and he settles back onto the dragon, head hanging ever so slightly. “Okay, then,” he says.  
  
Jensen frowns, because he hadn’t mean to upset the guy. Just—discourage him a little.  
  
But before he can say anything, Jared’s standing up. “Let’s go,” he says, hopping off the merry-go-round.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Park bench,” Jared says with exaggerated patience. “I want to sit on something that doesn’t have scales in uncomfortable places.”  
  
It’s a perfectly rational wish—too rational, Jensen will admit to himself later. Right now, though, he follows Jared obediently.  
  
Jared flops down on the park bench with a heavy sigh. “Can’t believe how tired I am,” he says, face tilted up to the sky. Jensen very carefully doesn’t look over at Jared when he sits down on the edge of the bench. “I ran all over the place looking for you, dude.”  
  
“Maybe I didn’t want to be found,” he says, sounding a hell of a lot bitchier than he meant to. Oh well—it’s probably for the best, anyway.  
  
“Hmm,” Jared says.  
  
Usually “hmm” means “I’m thinking about something important”; on Jared, “hmm” means “I’m about to jump you with nefarious purposes.” If Jensen had been a little less preoccupied with his pathetic girly unrequited love, he might’ve remembered that.  
  
Instead he’s taken completely by surprise when Jared grabs him, hooking a leg under Jensen’s own and fitting an arm around Jensen’s neck. Jensen lashes out immediately, but it’s too late: Jared has him in an inescapably secure chokehold.  
  
God damn it.  
  
“Geroff!” he says, batting at Jared’s face; but Jared’s got his arms pinned to his body, and his forearm doesn’t come anywhere close to touching Jared.  
  
“Sorry,” he says cheerfully, “but this was the only way to make you listen.”  
  
Jensen settles for glaring balefully.  
  
“See, here’s the thing,” Jared says. “I love you. I mean, I said it before, but I was talking kind of fast, so I’m thinking you didn’t really get it. I want to live together. My dogs like you, so that shouldn’t be a problem. But I want you to make breakfast and me to make dinner and for us to have sex all over the apartment, and to stay home to watch movies, and maybe hold hands everywhere we go since we do that a lot anyway. I want—Jen, I don’t even _know,_ but I think of everything I do and you’re right there, and every time I try to talk feelings with you I end up babbling like a moron, and doesn’t that mean something?”  
  
Jensen tries to answer, but it feels like someone’s shoved a tennis ball down his throat.  
  
“Are you going to kill me if I drag you back to my apartment?”  
  
Jared’s face is so nakedly hopeful that Jensen just shakes his head.  
  
And then they’re walking down the path (Jensen’s legs still work. He’s not sure how, but they do.) and Jared hails a cab, and the world blurs and they’re in the elevator going up to Jared’s floor.  
  
“Jen—“ Jared starts to say, but it’s taken ten minutes for Jensen to get basic motor functions back and there’s no way he’s going to let Jared take them from him again.  
  
So he kisses Jared, and it’s as fucking incredible as he knew it would be.  
  
They’re still kissing when the elevator doors ping open to reveal a group of Girl Scouts. A little girl with a brown beanie screams.  
  
“Mommy! The bad men are kissing an’ they’re not even in their own house!”  
  
“Shut up and go watch Barney, kid,” Jensen says, shoving the girls aside so he and Jared can half-walk, half-stumble down the hall to Jared’s apartment.  
  
“You’re gonna hafta say sorry to a growned-up!” the girl yells after them.  
  
“Really hope they don’t watch TV,” Jared says under his breath.  
  
“Who the fuck cares?” Jensen says, and does his level best to insinuate a hand into Jared’s pants.  
  
Jared shakes his head. “Back pocket,” he says. “Grab my key?”  
  
“Why?” Jensen asks challengingly, squeezing Jared’s cock.  
  
“Because,” Jared says, and suddenly Jensen’s head is against the gold numbers marking Jared’s apartment, “if you don’t, those Girl Scouts are going to be scarred for life. That or beat us to death with boxes of cookies, which is an experience I’d rather avoid for now, thanks.”  
  
Jensen digs his hand into Jared’s back pocket (which, really, isn’t that big a sacrifice, since he gets to squeeze Jared’s ass while he’s at it) and grabs the keys, shoving them into Jared’s hands.  
  
A second later they’re in the apartment, still making out like teenagers. Jared’s making these noises at the back of his throat—funny little moans and whimpers that have Jensen too hard to thinking, writhing against Jared and tugging him towards the bedroom.  
  
They don’t make it. It’s probably a rule, like that Murphy’s Law thing, that when there’s been a mutual confession of deep and abiding love, the couple can’t make it towards the bed. Jensen pauses in his inspection of Jared’s tonsils to take a quick survey of the living room.  
  
Narrow couch—no. Cold hardwood floor— _hell_ no. Pink beanbag chair—  
  
Well, at least it’s big.  
  
“Mmph—move. Over there.” Jensen jerks his head towards the chair.  
  
Jared’s eyes widen. “Uh, Jen, I know we’re both gay, but don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”  
  
“Not as extreme as rugburn on your ass,” Jensen points out.  
  
Jared pretty much runs over to the chair.  
  
Jensen follows, but stops to watch Jared undress, body rippling against the pliant pink fabric. He’s never gonna say this out loud, but with Jared’s tan and his stupid messed-up hair, he looks really, really good against the pale, striped pink.  
  
“Guess the wardrobe people’s choices make sense now, huh?” Jared says, grinning.  
  
“A bit,” Jensen tries to say, but Jared’s just pulled off his pants so it comes out as “Arghjit.”  
  
Jared smirks—an honest-to-God smirk, which is proof enough for Jensen that they’ve been spending too much time together—and stretches. “Get your damn clothes off and get over here,” he says, crooking a finger.  
  
Jensen obeys. He hears seams tear, which would normally make him wince; right now, though, he couldn’t care less.   
  
When he’s naked he takes a step forward, suddenly feeling weirdly cautious. Jared’s eyes skirt up and down his body and he smiles, pleased.  
  
“Y’know,” he says, yanking Jensen down till he’s straddling Jared’s lap, dicks brushing against one another and making Jensen breathe in sharply, “that first day, I saw you and I figured I’d fuck you by the end of the week.”  
  
“And?” Jensen forces himself to say. His voice sounds closed, strangled.  
  
“And,” Jared says, “I didn’t. And then we were friends, and every time you did anything bigger’n blink I wanted to grab onto you and never let you go.”  
  
Later there’ll be time for important proclamations and mushy lovey-dovey stuff. Right now Jensen raises shaking hands and runs them down Jared’s chest, wrapping his hands around Jared’s dick.  
  
“I can’t—I can’t talk right now,” he says by way of apology. “Wish I could.”  
  
Jared’s response is a long, drawn-out moan. When he thrusts into Jensen’s hand, his eyes are closed.  
  
“Wanna—wanna—“  
  
Jensen rubs his tumb across the top of Jared’s dick. “Yeah?”  
  
“Jerk.” Jared looks close to sticking his tongue out. “You—I—sixty-nine. You know. Make good on the bet.”  
  
He does know, and the thought makes his mouth go dry. “Here?”  
  
“Hey, why do you think the hippies invented these things?”  
  
Jensen’s mom owned a beanbag chair; he shudders. “Dude. Mental scarring.”  
  
Jared’s grin is unapologetic. He runs a hand down Jensen’s back, over his ass, tugging upwards gently. “C’mon,” he says quietly. “Haven’t had a chance to make you scream yet, Jen.”  
  
It doesn’t exactly take much thought for Jensen to decide. He moves up and turns around, lowering himself over Jared’s face and slowly letting his body slant downwards until his nose is inches from Jared’s dick.  
  
Jared makes a humming noise at the back of his throat, hands coming up to grip Jensen’s hips firmly. Jensen can’t help himself—he thrusts down raggedly, feeling his dick bump against Jared’s chin. “Jay,” he gasps, and lets himself wrap his lips around the head of Jared’s cock.  
  
“ _Shit._ ” A single syllable, long and drawn-out, and then—lips, tongue, and Jensen’s dick isn’t on fire, his entire _body_ is, and he can’t stop the moans now, but it doesn’t matter since they’re muffled by the weight of Jared’s cock   
  
“Oh God, Jen, do that again, please— _ohpleaseJengodyes—_ could do this forever, wanna—wanna fuck you, so many ways, can’t—“ And in between phrases Jared’s licking, wrapping his lips around Jensen’s dick, making it so that Jensen can barely hear for the rushing in his ears.  
  
Fingers, now, one then two up Jared’s ass. Wiggling in time with Jensen’s tongue, making Jared gasp around Jensen’s cock as his fingers skid from Jensen’s hips to his ass.  
  
And now Jared—god, the guy’s got long fingers. They belong holding a paintbrush or on piano keys, not buried in Jensen’s ass.  
  
Thank God and Moses and anyone else who’d like to take credit for it that they aren’t.  
  
The feeling at the base of his spine, flaring and running all through his body, is like someone’s fed him Napalm, the Sex Formula Version, or something. It’s hot and harsh and immediate, and Jensen opens his throat and swallows around Jared’s cock desperately, inviting Jared to thrust, to use Jensen’s mouth as Jensen uses his, because he’s got maybe a few seconds before he’s—  
  
Coming, and sex has never been a religious experience for Jensen, but lying almost upside-down on the pinkest beanbag chair known to man, it’s hard to imagine how it’s even been anything but.  
  
Jared lets out a shout and comes messily in Jensen’s mouth—and then on his face when his dick slips out into the air. Jensen closes his eyes.  
  
When Jared lets out a heavy breath and slumps down into the chair, Jensen wipes his face against the cloth. “Gross, dude,” he says, pinching Jared’s thigh.  
  
“Hah, hah—ow!” Jared smacks Jensen’s head. “Bitch.”  
  
“Better believe it.” Jensen gingerly pushes himself up and rolls to the side, off of Jared.  
  
“C’mere,” Jared orders, and then hands are tugging him back down.  
  
The head rush makes him fall against Jared. “Ow. Sorry,” Jensen says, struggling to reorient himself.  
  
Jared kisses him long and hard and deep. “Not complaining,” he says. The smile on his face looks like he’s stolen the sun.   
  
Jensen feels himself smiling in response—not a smirk, not a snarky grin, but the kind of honest-to-God smile he hasn’t let himself wear around Jared since he realized, too fucking long ago, exactly what Jared meant to him.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, settling back against Jared, feeling the ( _pink_ ) chair give beneath them. “Yeah. Me neither.”  
  
||  
  
End  
  
||


End file.
